


Heart Of Stone

by DictionaryWrites, Johannes_Evans



Series: Magic Beholden [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 18th Century, Autism, Banter, Biting, Boss/Employee Relationship, Canon ADHD Character, Canon Autistic Character, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Magic Revealed, Magical Realism, Mouth Kink, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Power Dynamics, Romance, Secretaries, Sexual Tension, Shyness, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Social Anxiety, Teeth, Vampire Bites, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 92,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johannes_Evans/pseuds/Johannes_Evans
Summary: The year is 1764, and following a glowing recommendation from his last employer, Henry Coffey, vampire, takes on a new personal secretary: young Theophilus Essex.The man is quite unlike any secretary - or any man, for that matter - that Henry has ever met.
Relationships: Extremely Sociable Vampire Employer/Painfully Shy And Quiet Secretary, Henry Coffey (OC)/Theophilus Essex (OC)
Series: Magic Beholden [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844758
Comments: 564
Kudos: 268
Collections: Magic Beholden





	1. Chapter 1

**HENRY**

The young man in Henry’s office was deeply serious.

He stood straight-backed, his chin high, his hands clasped very neatly behind his back, and he kept his gaze forward, fixated on some space in the distance, and not on Henry’s face. He was so still and unmoving as to be not unlike a statue, and there was something bust-like in the distinction of his features: his lips were loosely pursed, and very thin; his eyes, heavily lidded and with very thin lashes, were set deep in his head; to his softly brown complexion, although clear of pit or pustule, there was a sallow colouring, as though he was unused to sunlight.

“Your father is a mathematician?” Henry asked.

“Yes, sir,” the young man said – Essex, his name was, a thoroughly English name, but it was evident from his features that he came from foreign stock, and between his forename – Theophilus – and that of his father – Gerasimus – Henry would venture a guess that the stock was Greek in origin.

“You have brothers?”

“Two, sir, and one sister.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older, sir.”

“You’re the youngest of your family, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

He was _wooden_. There was little emotion in the way he spoke, and in all honesty, Henry found himself hard-pressed to discover emotion in him at all – even in his coat and breeches, his polished shoes, it was difficult to discover some semblance of personality.

“Mr Greenwich recommended you very highly,” Henry said softly, idly touching the letter of recommendation resting on the desk behind him, his fingers brushing the parchment. “He tells me you are a consummate dedicant to the pursuit of your work, that you are diligent, focused, and direct. He says that were it possible for him to convince you, he would have you join him in his move to the Colonies.”

“It is gratifying indeed, sir, to be held in such esteem by one’s employer.”

“You’re not smiling.”

That broke the young man’s mask: his neutrality faltered, and his forward-facing gaze shifted its focus to Henry’s own, looking at him askance. “Sir?”

“You have been in Mr Greenwich’s employ for some four years,” Henry said, reaching for the letter and holding it to demonstrate. “Two pages of little but praise for your name and your work. I don’t believe I have ever known a man to so ardently speak for the work of his secretary in all my years.”

Essex’s blank expression gave way to some confusion: his dark eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his dark brows furrowing, and although his thin lips did not shift from their loosely held line, Henry could see the slight twitch of muscle about his chin, his jaw.

“And yet,” Henry said, when Essex said nothing, “you do not smile.”

He watched the shift of Essex’s breast as he took in his next breath.

“You don’t find Mr Greenwich’s recommendation flattering?”

“I do, sir.”

“You are not a man to smile at flattery?”

“I don’t believe I am a man to smile at much, sir.”

“You aren’t?”

“No, sir.”

“Even as a boy?”

“So my mother tells me, sir.”

“Why, Mr Essex,” Henry said, feeling the smile pull at his own lips, “I fear you might find me some bore, for I smile near constantly.”

Essex’s brow furrowed further, his head tilting some degrees rightward, and now he did frown, his lips turning down at their edges: in their movement, Henry became aware of a scar that cut keen at one edge of his lower lip, a cut too clean to have been made by Essex’s teeth, that must have come either from the lip splitting very badly, or perhaps a blade. He was waiting, it seemed to Henry, for some further explanation: Henry gave none, and merely kept his position, watching Essex for what he might say.

“It would not be my place,” Essex said finally, “to find you a bore or otherwise, Mr Coffey. A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” This last was a quotation, judging by Essex’s pronouncement of each syllable, but from what, Henry hadn’t the foggiest idea.

“Do you have a cheerful heart, Mr Essex?”

“I could not say, sir,” Essex said softly. “But that has no bearing on my work as clerk or amanuensis.”

“Doesn’t it? If I dictate a letter to you, Essex, full to the brim with cheer, can I trust you to communicate that cheer in the register of your pen upon parchment?”

Essex was looking at him as if Henry had just grown an additional head, but thought it might be impolite to point it out. “Perhaps not, sir,” he said softly, “but in the past, I have only ever relied on a letter’s language for the communication of my correspondent’s meaning, and not the curve or set of his hand.”

“You aren’t a man for whimsy, are you, Essex?”

“No, sir.”

“You can’t be converted?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Do I offend you, Essex?”

“No, sir.”

“Offset you, then?”

Essex took some time before he gave his response, seeming to think it through very carefully, and then he said, at length, “Mr Coffey… You are most unlike Mr Greenwich.”

Henry laughed, and for a moment, Essex looked utterly horrified that something he’d said might have been misconstrued as wit. This window into visible horror lasted only a moment, though, before his features were schooled back to those of the marble bust to which Henry was quickly accustoming.

“I should very much like to employ you as my secretary, Mr Essex,” Henry said, still smiling. “If you would be willing to accept.”

“Of course, Mr Coffey,” Essex said, with a very neat bow of his head. His hair, which was black, was tied with a grey ribbon at the nape of his neck – Henry would wager it was naturally curly, but it seemed that Essex went to some effort to comb it into submission.

“Very well,” Henry said reaching for the terms of employ he’d had Andrew write up before he had departed. “Your emolument is perhaps higher than you had with Mr Greenwich, but I fear I cannot offer you in-house accommodation as he did himself. That said, there is a very good boarding house not a few minutes’ walk from my home, where my previous f rented a room.”

Essex was quiet, his dark eyes scanning the terms laid out upon the page, his lips moving infinitesimally as he concentrated, as though he were struggling not to whisper the words aloud.

“Your work will, of course, be that which you had been accustomed with Mr Greenwich – in attending to correspondence, notation, and keeping in good order the papers and manuscripts that pass through my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re only five and twenty?”

Essex glanced up from the page. “Six and twenty, sir.”

“Born in August?”

Essex hesitated only a moment before he said, “Yes, sir. August twelfth.”

Henry beamed. “You and I, my young friend, were born under the same stars. Do you not think that fortuitous?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“No, Mr Essex,” Henry said in very soft tones. “I suppose you couldn’t.”

Essex looked up from the contract in his hand, and said quietly, genuinely, “Thank you very much for the opportunity, Mr Coffey. I hope to do good work in your office.”

“Of course,” Henry replied, and put out his hand to shake.

Essex’s gaze dropped down to Henry’s hand, but that was his only hesitation before he clasped it in his own to shake: if he noticed that Henry’s flesh was slightly stiffer than most men’s to the touch, or thought the cold of his skin unnatural, it did not show in his face.

“Glad to have you, Mr Essex,” Henry murmured, and when he pulled his hand away, he felt the warm ghost of Essex’s linger on his palm.

* * *

**HENRY**

“Mr Coffey, good evening,” was Joseph’s greeting as he pulled open the door and stepped back to allow Henry inside, shaking off some of the rain. As Henry unbuckled his cloak from around his neck, Joseph took it, hanging it on the rack. In the warm glow of the candlelight, his features were a welcoming sight, his skin a burnished black, his lips shifting into a small smile. “Mrs Woodbury has left supper for you warming in the oven. Shall I fetch it for you?”

“In a little while,” Henry murmured. “I would read a little first.”

He watched as Joseph’s hand painted some arcane symbol on the air, watching the steam rise away from the fabric of his coat before it could drip any further onto the floor: quick, smooth, capable. That was the essence of Joseph’s sorcery, far beyond anything Henry could achieve himself, even after all his years of exposure.

“How fares our new footman?”

Matthew was a new addition to the house: Henry preferred as small a number of household staff as could really be managed, and he left the addition of new hires entirely to Joseph and Hanna – Mrs Woodbury – but they had said a few weeks previous that they needed a new boy to assist in daily running, and Henry had quickly assented.

It was not as though a great number of people were required to keep a vampire’s household in good working order. In all honesty, Henry could contentedly have kept his house in order himself, perhaps keeping only one or two people to assist, but he so disliked an empty house, and long-gone were the days where one might encourage one’s friends to ever live in the same household – long-gone, at least, were the days when _Henry_ might succeed. Joseph and Hanna led the charge as butler and housekeeper, with each now having two assistants apiece, on top of the cook, the gardener, and Mr Woodrow, the stablemaster, and his boy: servants were encouraged to walk with light tread, but Henry could always hear them moving up and down the corridors or the stairs when he was sitting alone with something, and it was comforting. 

“He’s well,” Joseph answered, smoothing out the cloak before he stepped away from it, and they walked alongside each other as they moved further into the house, where the candles were lit: they moved down the corridor and up the stairs together into the library, where a fire was already burning beside the main reading table, a bottle of wine resting on the table beside Henry’s armchair. “A little clumsy, but most of that is nerves, and at nineteen, he’s as-yet a gangling youth. He’ll improve.”

“No problems with your authority?” Henry asked as he slid his coat from his shoulders, and Joseph took it from him, stepping across the room to hang it up before returning with Henry’s banyan, but Henry shook his head.

“None that I could surmise,” Joseph said softly. “I believe he mentioned another of the boys in the house where he was page was a mulatto, and the cook as well.”

“That’s good,” Henry said quietly. He stood with his hands loosely touching the back of one of the chairs at his reading table, looking at the burning embers of the fire, listening to the soft crackle of the wood as it caught flame. Outside, it was still raining, but father away from the patter of it on the windowpanes and the rooftiles, he could hear noise down in the scullery – soft laughter, a flickering sound of paper pieces, the creak of chair legs on stone floor: downstairs, they were playing cards.

“Henry?”

At the use of his forename, Henry turned his head to look at the other man, his lips parting. How long had they known one another, now? Henry distantly recalled when Joseph was nothing more than a skinny young boy clinging to his mother’s skirts, back when Mrs Jones had been Henry’s head housekeeper. He had been so sensitive a child, Henry recalled, always the first to rush in if one of the horses whinnied in distress or if he heard the dog yelp, had sobbed for days when one of the fillies had delivered her foal stillborn.

The boy in his memories almost seemed a different person entirely to the man that stood before him now, thirty-eight, his hair beginning to lighten its shade and turn to grey in places, broad-shouldered though his waist remained skinny, a man apart from most in his nobility – and still the first to run in when he heard one of the cats cry.

“Henry?” Joseph said again. Of the staff, he was the one least uncertain of using Henry’s forename, barring Mr Woodrow, who wouldn’t call him anything _other_ than Henry – it wasn’t even that Joseph had known him for the longest, because Hanna had been in his employ for nearly sixty years, since she was but an adolescent stealing peaches from the cook’s kitchen, and she only ever called him _Henry_ when he was ill. As for Mr Woodrow, the only ladies and gentlemen he would deign to call by title were the horses he kept.

“Joseph,” Henry said softly.

“You’re distracted,” Joseph said quietly, tilting his head slightly to the side as he kept his gaze on Henry’s. “Are you well?”

“Oh, well enough,” Henry murmured. “Musing on past times, that’s all.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Nothing, my friend,” Henry said. “Please, go downstairs, play cards with the others.”

“You can hear them from up here?” Joseph asked, surprised, his eyebrows raising, and when Henry gave him a wan smile, he nodded his head. “Your supper—”

“I’ll fetch it myself,” Henry said, waving his hand. “We have no audience, Joseph: there’s no need to wait on me.”

“Then, with no audience, I’ll ask you – are you sure you want to be alone?” It was a simple question, directly poised, and Henry inhaled, pressing his lips loosely together. He and Joseph were near enough the same height, but for a few scant inches Henry only occasionally reached with a stiff pomade, and yet in the moment, Henry felt rather small – nothing to do with Joseph, of course, but with the state of his own mood. “You could join us for cards,” Joseph suggested.

“No, it will ruin it for them,” Henry murmured. “You and Mr Woodrow will fare well enough, but it’ll set everyone else’s teeth on edge to have me sitting at the table with them, and I wouldn’t do that.”

“If you did it often, it wouldn’t,” Joseph said, not indelicately, but Henry shook his head.

“Thank you,” he said, shaking his head. “But no, I’ll read, eat my supper, and then to bed.”

“I’ll bring Matthew up at ten o’clock,” Joseph murmured.

“Please do.”

Joseph turned as if to go, but then lingered, glancing back at Henry, and said, “This mood isn’t brought about by the appointment of your new secretary?”

“Mr Essex is a strange duck,” Henry said.

“Why don’t you eat supper now? I’ve not eaten yet – we could take it together.”

“For my sake, you needn’t—”

“It isn’t for your sake,” Joseph interrupted smoothly, his impatience showing in his words if not in his tone. “They’re playing whist, and I can’t abide sitting idle while four people play, not to mention that Mr Woodrow is drunk, and keeps talking about his youth in India – you think I answered the door so quickly because I was waiting for your knock?”

“Very well,” Henry said, and took up his banyan after all, wrapping it about himself as he stepped after the other man and followed him back down the stairs. “Ought I surmise from your sudden keen interest in conversation that you wish to bend my ear as much as you wish me to bend yours?”

“Such a cynic,” Joseph said. “Normally you’re a man abounding with joy.”

“If you could dodge a rapier as keenly as a question, Joseph, you would be a master swordsman.”

“And had I hooves, I would be an excellent horse,” Joseph replied, and Henry laughed, closing the door to the kitchen as they stepped inside.

The kitchen was made up of two rooms, one with a great worktable and several ovens, for entertaining, but this was the smaller of the two, containing mostly pantry space and a great fire, and chairs gathered before it. Several of these chairs were a few hundred years the senior of Joseph Jones, small stitches of fabric at the corners of their seats the only relic of what cushioning had once been nailed to them, and Henry bade Joseph sit as he took plates aside, setting them on the small table. It wasn’t an ornate repast, merely cuts of meat and some stewed vegetables, but Mrs Woodbury had dutifully left it to warm, well-accustomed to Henry’s particular aversion to cold meals.

“What’s he like?” Joseph asked, handing Henry a slice of bread already buttered, and proceeding to butter his own.

“Bizarre,” Henry said. “I told you how highly Mr Greenwich sung his praises, and I never gave it thought at the time, but in rereading his missive, I see that he has made no mention of the young man’s _personality_ , speaking only on the quality of his work and his devotion to it.”

“He’s a lout?”

“Not in the least. He’s exceedingly polite, the epitome of good manners.”

“Stupid, then?”

“Not that I can surmise.”

“Then what’s your quarrel?”

“He’s… cold.”

“Cruel?”

“No, no,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Merely austere. He told me he wasn’t a man to smile at much, but having worked with him today for some ten hours, it seems to _me_ he isn’t a man to smile at anything. And yet, he doesn’t seem displeased with me, not in any way I can measure: he thanked me several times for the position, and for the letter I sent with him to the Audrey Boarding House, and even said, when I asked what had appealed about me as a potential employer, that he had read of my business practices that I was a man of good repute, and that such men were _regrettably in seldom supply_.”

Henry’s expression twisted, his eyebrows raising, and he leaned slightly back in his chair, the ancient wood creaking under the movement. “What did you say to that?”

“Nothing. He vanished from the room upon his pronouncement of it, in search of blotting paper, as though he were embarrassed to have said something so candid. In scarce more than a whisper he said it, too.”

“He’s how old?”

“Six and twenty.”

“Shy?”

“I can only assume. He isn’t especially graceful, nor notably silent, but there’s an unobtrusive air to him that’s rather— Well, I would say difficult to ignore, but in point of fact, it is difficult _not_ to.” Henry sighed, reaching up and pulling free the ribbon keeping his hair tied, shaking it loose. It was a heavy weight on his shoulders, comforting – it was all the fashion now, to have long hair, and it had been nice to grow it out, a genuine pleasure. He didn’t think he’d cut it again, when the fashion changed. “I really don’t know what to make of him.”

He didn’t. It was strange, in all truth, that thoughts of Essex should so linger with him when the working day was done – it wasn’t to say he’d never thought of any of his secretaries after returning home, but ordinarily, that was because he knew something about them, their personal lives – certainly, he’d thought of Andrew from time to time, when Andrew’s mother was ill and it had left him distracted until Henry had insisted he take leave; he recalled when Andrew had been reading the work of Joseph Trapp and had been enjoying it immensely, and he’d puzzled over it for some days whenever they discussed it with one another in passing, that a young man of such taste in some areas should entirely lack it in this one.

But in thinking of Andrew, in thinking of any person he’d ever taken into his employ, it would ordinarily be because he had learned something about them.

In Essex’s case?

Henry felt he knew nothing at all.

What had Essex revealed to him?

That he was the youngest of his family; a Greek; the son of a mathematician; that he was born under the stare of the Nemean Lion. He could have learned all of that from a slip of paper: it gave him no idea as to the man himself.

Henry was a dutiful, focused clerk: he listened intently, had never asked for Henry to slow down or repeat himself across the day of working together, and this wasn’t due to his attempting to hide that he couldn’t keep pace, because Henry had looked over his shoulder. Essex wrote to dictation at rapid speed, his wrist artfully held to spare his palm and his shirt sleeve the stain of ink, and he blotted his work with such regularity and ease that it was reminiscent of a press. His penmanship was impeccable; he read quickly and fast noted errors or irregularities in a document; twice in the day, when looking at merchants’ reports, he had noted tiny errors in great columns of numbers, and made notations as to their correction.

Here was what Henry knew about Theophilus Essex: he was a very good secretary.

As to anything else?

“Have you ever ridden, Essex?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like horses?”

“I have no strong opinions, sir.”

“Do you enjoy riding?”

“For distances where moving on foot is unfeasible, sir.”

“Do you care for dogs?”

“I have never really known a dog, sir.”

“Cats?”

“They can be capable mousers, sir, so long as they are young, hale, and hearty. I have heard there is a preponderance of feline service to our merchant navy, to defend from the scourge of rats upon what supplies they might transport. There are some sailors who believe that in the animal is an instinctive ability to sense the coming of storms before they might be seen on the horizon, perhaps with some sensitivity in the whisker or the paw, and who watch their cats carefully lest they communicate that such a storm is soon to come. Others still believe that the cat itself acts as a sort of talisman or lucky protector, that its mere presence protects against misfortune.”

It was probably the most Essex had as yet spoken at length, and Henry had been surprised for a moment, had paused with his lips apart, his focus entirely on Essex, whose gaze had been fixated on the columns of numbers he was examining, and yet it had been so lacking in actual opinion, Henry was stunned.

“Yes,” he said, finally, “but do you like them?”

Essex had glanced up from his work, his dark eyebrows raising. “Like what, sir?”

“Cats, Essex.”

“Oh,” Essex had said, as if the question’s purpose was difficult, at its core, to ascertain. “I fear I couldn’t say, sir.”

Every conversation with Essex proceeded in this manner.

Henry had asked his opinion, today, on what seemed like thirty subjects – he had read the work of every poet that Henry had recounted, and had opinions on none of them; he played no sport and enjoyed no games; he did not frequent coffeehouses or taverns, and had no especial love for music or street theatre; he knew nothing of modern fashion trends nor considered that they should, it seemed to Henry, impact his life. Had he told Henry that he spent his evenings pressed between the pages of a heavy tome like a dried flower, Henry would not have been surprised.

“Is he mundane?” Joseph asked, breaking Henry’s reverie, and Henry realised he had been curling his fingers about a lock of his hair, thoughtlessly, lost as he had been in his thoughts.

“I believe so,” Henry murmured. “It was Arthur Greenwich who recommended his work, and that man is entirely mundane – I have no reason to believe he has even a farmer’s knowledge of pixie or gnome, let alone an understanding of sorcery as it exists.”

“Perhaps he’s merely shy,” Joseph said, and Henry huffed out a small laugh, taking a piece of pork into his mouth and chewing it thoughtfully. “Do you mind if I bend your ear?”

“Never. What’s on your mind?”

“I might get married,” Joseph said.

“Oh,” Henry said, and immediately, he beamed. “Oh, Joseph, I’m so sorry – why did you let me witter on about such unimportant nonsense? Who is she?”

“Her name is Gráinne,” Joseph said in soft tones, clasping his hands together and beaming, showing the brightness of his teeth. “But I haven’t— Henry, I’ve never even spoken to her.”

“And you plan to propose?”

“No, no,” Joseph said quickly, laughing breathlessly. “No, merely that I… I never considered marriage before I laid eyes on her, not in all my life. Not with any sense of gravity, and yet seeing her, it’s as though a ray of light is shining where before I saw only darkness: marriage seems suddenly to me less like a door unlocked, and more like a door suddenly revealed.”

Henry could not contain his beam, resting his chin on the palm of his hand and looking at the other man whilst showing his unabashed delight. “You mean to tell me, Joseph Jones, that you have laid eyes on this woman only, that you have never spoken a word to her, and you are declaring yourself in love?”

“If you’d seen her, you would declare the same,” Joseph said earnestly, and Henry laughed.

“Who is she? Where did you see her?”

“I saw her at the witch’s market this Wednesday last,” Joseph murmured. “She carries the stars in her skirts, their hems glittering in the sunlight – she sings like no woman I’ve ever heard. Henry, you’ve never _seen_ such a queen as this one: her cheeks are as pink as the blossom in spring; her hair falls in black tresses that shine like a scarab shell; her eyes are so green you might think she carried emeralds in them.”

“I see,” Henry said. “Why ever haven’t you said any of this to her? There’s no sense telling it to me.”

Joseph stood to his feet, putting his hands over his eyes and groaning softly, and Henry felt the warmest glow of genuine affection in his chest – like this, Joseph looked like a man of eighteen again, shifting from one foot to the other as he paced the kitchen floor.

“What if she rejects me?” he said softly, desperately, his expression full to the brim with imagined woe. “What if she scorns my affections?”

“If you can’t so much as speak a word to her,” Henry said, “I fail to see how a proposal might be achieved. Just speak to her. Ask her to promenade with you in the park.”

“What if she says no!?” Joseph groaned.

Matching the other man’s volume and injecting all the enthusiasm that could be mustered in his response, Henry crowed, “What if she says yes?”

Joseph groaned, and fell dramatically against the counter like a puppet with his strings cut, groaning against the polished wood, and Henry chuckled. How could he not be fond, seeing Joseph so overwhelmed, so taken away with a would-be wife, after so many years?

And yet…

Distantly, in the very pit of his belly, there remained a sense of melancholy – it was a sensation too resigned to be called jealousy. He was delighted for Joseph: he was caught off-guard, surprised, and yet what joy was to be found in this, and yet…

The yet was not to be considered.

“You should speak with her tomorrow,” Henry murmured.

“I still have much to teach Matthew.”

“So? You think Matthew won’t last a day without taking tutelage from Mr Woodrow, or Mr McElroy? In any case, he will likely be slow tomorrow, and tired upon his feet.”

Joseph dropped heavily into his chair again, making it creak loudly, and he sighed. “Have you ever been married, Henry?”

“Never, Joseph.” After a moment’s consideration, he did say, “I was engaged, once.”

“Engaged?”

“I was pledged to marry a girl when I was still in my swaddling clothes,” Henry said softly. “Her name was Hawise.”

“Hawise? I’ve never heard that name.”

“It’s gone out of fashion in the intervening centuries.” Henry spread his hands in a gesture of _quel surprise_ , and Joseph laughed – it was a soft laugh, quiet.

“You loved her?” he asked.

“No.” Henry did not shake his head, but kept his chin high, even as the smile lingered like a ghost on his lips. “I did not.” Inhaling, he smoothed his palms over the knees of his breeches, getting to his feet. “I’m sorry, Joseph, I think I might retire to read in bed.”

“I’ll bring Matthew up,” Joseph murmured, and he put his hand to Henry’s shoulder, squeezing. “You are well?”

“I am. And you?”

“Better for having poured my heart out.”

“What else are friends for?”

They laughed together for a moment, and then Henry went back up the stairs, sighing at the comparative cool of his bedroom as he stepped inside – he never had the fires lit in his bedroom unless he expected to have a partner in his bed, and the cool air was a pleasant balm on his skin: already, he felt more relaxed, and suspected he might sleep before he managed to read a word of the books resting ready for him at his bedside.

He was folding back his bedclothes when he heard the crisp knock at the door, and he turned his head to look from Joseph to Matthew. He was a very tall young man, several inches taller than Joseph, and although he carried a youthful plumpness in his cheeks, he was a stripling to look at, stick-thin and gangling as a young tree in winter.

“Matthew Landrake, isn’t it?” Henry asked quietly, and Matthew nodded his head, his lip quivering. “You’re frightened?”

“No, no, sir,” Matthew said, with rapidity. “Mr Coffey. Not at all, sir.” The apple of his throat bobbled visibly once, twice, thrice, as Matthew swallowed several times in quick succession, and Henry gave him a small smile, intended to be comforting, as he pulled the chair at his vanity further into the centre of the room.

Matthew stared at it, at the plush, green cushioning and the curving arms and legs of it, as though he was going directly from it to the hangman’s noose.

“Has Joseph explained to you what it is I am?” Henry asked.

Matthew’s next inhalation was audible, a sharp whistle taken in through his nose. “Ye— Yes.”

“You’ve met my kind before?”

“No, sir,” Matthew whispered. “But I— But I heard that… But it’s a woman as you are who teaches the petty school in the witch’s market, does it under the oak tree, and she wears a great big hat, sir, and carries a parasol, so’s the sun don’t get at her.”

“Her name is Katherine Dubelle,” Henry said, his voice even, pitched low. “She’s taught children their letters in Hecate Square since before your grandmother’s grandmother was born.”

“Oh,” Matthew said, almost squeaked.

“Come here,” Henry murmured, gesturing with two fingers, and Matthew stumbled as he came forward on his clumsy feet, but managed to right himself before he hit the ground, and he turned on his shaking legs to drop as heavily as a sack of stone into the chair. “Matthew.”

“Sir?”

“This isn’t going to hurt you,” Henry said, for a moment crouching before the young man, and he could see Matthew’s eyes widen in surprise at seeing Henry so low on the ground. “There will be a moment of sharp, pricking pain, but following that, you will feel… Have you ever been drunk, Matthew?”

“No, sir,” Matthew said quickly, horrified.

“He doesn’t ask to scold you, boy,” Joseph murmured from the doorway. “He asks because the sensation is not unlike being very deep in your cups.”

Matthew swallowed again, and Henry could see the sweat beading on his temples, his cheeks. He looked terrified, and Henry felt ill-at-ease.

“You know, Matthew, you needn’t do this at all, if it truly frightens you,” Henry said, and Matthew’s mouth fell open, glancing between Henry and Joseph both.

“But— It is a term of my… my employment, in’t it?”

“Not at all,” Henry said. “Forgive me for saying so, young man, but you look liable to faint dead away from fright at any moment.”

“I don’t want to die, sir,” Matthew whispered, all but breathed out the words. “I’ve my sisters to take care of, and my mother too, sir, I can’t die, not with them counting so they do on my wages, sir.”

“You’re not going to die,” Henry said quietly. “Do you know how much blood you have in your body, Matthew?”

“As much as I need, sir,” Matthew said, and behind him, Henry heard Joseph laugh: he laughed himself, quietly, doing his best to keep his expression soft, in case the boy mistook his laughter for cruelty.

“In your body, I would estimate,” Henry said, “there are approximately one-hundred-and-sixty fluid ounces of blood. I will deprive you of between ten and twelve of those ounces – within the week, your body will have regenerated it.”

“Twelve ounces?” Matthew repeated.

“Only a little more than two glasses of wine,” Henry said. “No more.”

“An’ I won’t— An’ I can’t die?”

“No,” Henry assured him. “You will feel quite euphoric, while I’m drinking from you, and in the hours afterward, and you’ll likely be quite unsteady on your feet, and when you sleep, you may have some very intense dreams. The effect of the anodyne in my saliva will linger with you for longer than that of the blood loss.”

He opened his mouth, shifting his jaw, and he watched Matthew’s eyes clap onto his canine teeth as they shifted down with a soft _click_ of shifting bone. “Look,” he said quietly. “They aren’t so long, are they? Not so much longer than yours.” It felt strange, to speak with his teeth unsheathed, their tips brushing against his lower lip – it was a strange relief, in a way, and simultaneously felt uncomfortably naked.

“They’re right sharp,” Matthew muttered.

“Certainly,” Henry agreed. “The cut of the sharp blade is more precise than the blunt, is it not?”

Shakily, Matthew nodded his head.

“You won’t die,” Joseph said, putting his hand gently on Matthew’s shoulder. “In the household we trade places, you see, and a different one of us gives Mr Coffey what he needs each night. Means none of us takes the bulk of it, and gives us each time to recover. And you’ll take a supplement tomorrow morning, to hasten that recovery. I started feeding Mr Coffey alongside the rest of the household when I was sixteen – look at me now, a score and two years on. I’m healthy, strapping, strong.”

Matthew swallowed again, one last time. “You promise it’ll only hurt a bit?”

“On my word,” Henry said, his hand over his heart, beating so slow in his chest as to seem still to the untrained hand. “On my honour. You might scarcely recall the moment of pain, come morning – the pleasure is far more enduring.”

“And how long will I bleed? After?”

“You won’t,” Henry said. “I’ll heal the mark I’ve left before I let you retire – you might have some bruising, but no plain piercings, not even two scabs.”

“Alright,” Matthew mumbled, quickly nodding his head, and Henry rose slowly to his feet. “Do I have to— do I have to, to untie my cravat?”

“If you want me to bite your neck,” Henry said softly. “But perhaps you might be more comfortable, Matthew, were I to drink from your wrist, instead.”

Matthew peered at him, his eyebrows raised, his expression astounded. “You can do that?”

“Give me your left hand,” Henry murmured, and Matthew held it out: his hand was trembling, but not as strongly as it had a moment before, and Henry undid the fastening at his cuff, parting the edges of the sleeve and bearing Matthew’s wrist to the cool of the room, tapping his thumb a few times against the softer flesh a few inches above the joint. “Just two pinpricks of pain, and for only a moment. Alright?”

Matthew nodded shakily, and Henry gave him no more time to worry himself: he leaned in and bit down in one smooth movement, careful not to catch the tendons, and drank.

Matthew hissed softly in pain, but after two seconds had passed, he groaned deeply, and Henry saw the way his body abruptly slackened, Matthew’s form utterly limp in his chair. His eyes were defocused, somewhere off in the clouds, and Henry was careful, fastidious, as he drank, careful not to nick or catch any vein he did not mean to, doing his best to be tender, that he not bruise the flesh underneath his mouth.

When he had finished, he drew away, drawing his thumb over the twin piercing marks he’d left, healing the damage he’d done until the skin was smooth and unmarred once more.

“S’quite g’d,” Matthew slurred, head lolling. “Y’start’d yet?”

“He’s finished,” Joseph said helpfully, and Henry stood to his feet, wiping the very edge of his mouth with his fingertip, as Joseph gently coaxed the unsteady Matthew to his feet.

“Wait wait,” Matthew groaned. “H’needs… a drink—”

“He’s done, Matthew,” Joseph murmured. “No more.”

“ _Done_?”

“All finished.”

“ _Ho…_ ”

“Joseph,” Henry said.

“Henry?”

“Would you ask Mrs Woodbury to ensure Mr Landrake eats some more cabbage, in the coming weeks?”

“Bad taste?”

“Somewhat, certainly,” Henry said. “But more crucially, the anaemia can’t be good for him.”

“Understood,” Joseph murmured. “Good night.”

“Good night, Henry. Thank you, Matthew.”

Matthew moaned something utterly incoherent, leaning heavily on Joseph’s shoulder, and Henry closed the door neatly behind them as they retreated, beginning the process of undressing himself for bed.

Henry felt full and sated, now, like a cat resting beside a fireplace, and once he had his nightgown on, he slipped swiftly into his bed, drawing the heavy covers overtop him and dousing his candle.

Lying in the darkness, his head rested on the plush thickness of his pillow, he could hear sound in the rest of the house – he could hear the sound of Joseph supporting Matthew down to the servants’ quarters, Matthew chortling drunkenly as they went; he heard the sound of footsteps in the library, Mrs Woodbury or one of her girls dousing the fire and putting out the candles before bed; outside, in the yard, he could hear Mr Woodrow singing some Gaelic lullaby to the horses.

For no reason at all, his thoughts strayed to young Mr Essex.

What was he doing, in his boarding house? Reading a book, perhaps, or writing a letter home to his brothers and sister, to his mother? Was he sitting straight-backed at his writing desk, doing absolutely nothing at all but staring forward, his face expressionless?

Henry felt his lips shift into a small smile, and he closed his eyes.

It was curious, really. Thinking on Essex, there was nothing about him that Henry really thought he knew, and yet, to his own surprise, he really rather _liked_ him. He was looking forward, he realised, to seeing him on the morrow.

He slept as soundly as the dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**THEOPHILUS**

Theophilus arose from his bed before the sun had crested the horizon, stirred awake by the noise and bustle of market workers as they passed by in the street – the skies outside were a softly peach colour, unexpected after the heavy rain from the night before, and Theophilus found himself almost disappointed by it, looking down at the still-wet stone of the Birmingham streets, their golden surface ashine with the moisture, but no longer dappled with falling rain.

Theophilus liked rain.

The sound of it was calming, offering a meditative lilt in the background of one’s daily tasks, and more than that, he loved the slick look it gave the world, painting everything with a pleasant shine, like varnish over an oil painting – and this was without considering the puddles that gathered in the gullies and troughs of the street slabs and cobbles, the pools of water that rippled with each new heavy droplet.

Theophilus smiled to himself, exhaling softly, and rose from his bed to pursue his toilette and to dress himself. The room at the Audrey boarding house was larger than to what he was accustomed: he had stayed whilst in Mr Greenwich’s service in a room adjoining his servants’ quarters, a modest room indeed with a separate exit to that of the servants’ quarters, and whilst it had well kept warmth even in the winter months, it had been narrow and cramped, little more than a small pantry turned over to lodgings as needed.

This room was… larger. Airier. The ceiling higher, the wooden floor softer and dryer beneath the feet, a shelf upon the wall resting empty, encouraging the depositing of what books and papers one might wish to set there, and there rested a wardrobe, too, and a great space about the basin, a mirror set upon the wall – small, yes, but larger than any mirror Theophilus had used before, and rather too fine for what use he would make of it, he thought.

Yes, he very much liked the room, and the soft bed that it came with, although the blankets were somewhat light, and he thought he might spend some of his wages on something quilted, that would be far heavier on top of him. Folding his nightgown neatly and setting it aside, he went then to his bedclothes, straightening and setting them properly in place, that they rested flat upon the bed.

At his writing desk, he had left the pages of his letter to his mother in Cambridge to dry, and now he gently touched his fingers to the blotted ink, ascertaining it was entirely fit to send, before he folded it very neatly, sealing it before writing his mother’s name and address in neat, looping letters on its outside.

There were other papers on Theophilus’ desk, of course. He had made notes of important considerations in Mr Coffey’s office – times at which he was expected to arrive to work, a few addresses of note, and such forth – but atop those papers rested a few squares of sketch paper.

He had been somewhat preoccupied, the night previous.

Wrought in careful strokes of graphite pencil, Mr Coffey was no less handsome on the page, it seemed to Theophilus, than he was in person. He carried the features of the aristocracy in his countenance, with a neat chin and curving jaw, high cheekbones and a graceful neck, and most of all Theophilus had found himself distracted in the course of yesterday’s work by the shape of his lips: the lower was plump and round, the upper forming a cupid’s bow so perfect as to seem almost sculpted, and Theophilus had itched to draw them as soon as he’d laid eyes on them, wanted to follow every shadow and curve that made them with his pencil and make them anew.

Looking down at the shadow of them he had made in grey and white, he almost wished he might pursue the oils he’d never had much interest in at university, that he might try to capture their colour. Mr Coffey’s skin was a handsome pale brown, a smooth colour that reminded him of the skin on a walnut, somewhere between lion and tawny: his lips added the scarcest hint of red to that palette, muted in its shade and yet somehow beguiling.

It was a perfect colour, Theophilus thought. Utterly perfect.

Such a shame he couldn’t recreate it in pencil alone.

Mr Coffey did not wear a wig, as Mr Greenwich – who was balding, and had such a spot at his crown one would think he was sporting a tonsure – did, and for the fact Theophilus found himself most uncommon grateful, for Mr Coffey had a mane of darkly yellow hair that, Theophilus thought, was the colour of buckthorn or maize, and wore it in a beautifully appointed tail worn high behind his head. He did not wear his hair in a Q, as Theophilus did – as most men did – but wore it higher, baring the back collar of his blouse, the curls hanging down and bobbing handsomely when Mr Coffey moved one way and the other.

It was hardly the first time Theophilus had been moved by a gentleman with especially comely features, distracted and wanting to mirror his features in pencil or ink or even stone – oh, and that was a thought not even to be considered – but it was certainly the first time he had been employed by one.

Mr Greenwich, in all the time Theophilus had known him, had been a very ugly man, inside and out. Mr Coffey…

Sighing softly to himself, Theophilus collected his sketches under his hands, setting them into the drawer of the desk, along with his new notes, that his desktop should be clear, and stoppered his bottle of ink before he made to leave his room and move down the stairs.

“Oh, Mr Essex,” said Mrs Quays as he descended the stair. “You’re already awake. Shall I ask Cook to start breakfast for you?”

“No, thank you, Mrs Quays,” Theophilus said quietly as he drew on his cloak, buckling it neatly at his neck. He handed her the letter, to be placed on the pile with other letters bound for Cambridge. “But I ought be on time for dinner this evening. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Mrs Quays echoed behind him, and Theophilus slipped out into the street.

He did not smile as he felt the slick wetness of the stone streets beneath his feet, but when he glanced down at its colour, many shades of gold and golden brown, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction, and was content as he moved to the garden some ways up the street, where a few benches were scattered about a promenade.

It was nothing more than a cultivated thoroughfare, a boulevard with the addition of rose bushes and blossom trees – compared to the Vauxhall Gardens, which Theophilus had passed as he’d come into Birmingham, it was nothing ornate or particularly enchanting, but it was pleasant indeed, to be amongst flowers, and Theophilus sat quietly with his book in his lap, enjoying the temperate weather and the soft light of the rising sun upon his cheeks as it slid higher into the sky.

This was one benefit of a day without rain, Theophilus supposed, for the bench was dry and the skies over his head were blue, and it was a simple fact in pursuing the reading of a book, Theophilus felt, that the pages should be dry and the ink should not run.

Settled under the sun’s soft morning light, he read.

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

It was some time later when Theophilus was disturbed from his reading by a mild, politely toned, “Mr Essex?”

Glancing up from the book settled upon his knees, Theophilus glanced up at the figure standing over him. With the sun shining from behind him, for a moment, Theophilus saw only the dark green patterning of his coat and his breeches, the pale colour of his shirt in stark contrast; when he looked higher, he saw the shape of the parasol held over his shoulders and the green colour of his spectacle glass, so dark as to seem almost black.

Mr Coffey’s hair was tied behind his head as it had been yesterday, but strands had come loose from the tail and hung about his face, framing the hard line of his cheeks and his temples with gently curling locks of wheat-coloured hair, and it took Theophilus a moment of blank incomprehension before he shot swiftly to his feet, clutching his book to his chest.

Embarrassment flooded hot down his back as though he were being dripped over with a very hot wax candle, but he collected himself so as not to swallow unduly or fidget in his place, nor to slouch, although he retained a downcast glance.

“Mr Coffey,” he said, looking down at the brocaded front of Mr Coffey’s vest – he wore a ditto suit, and although the fabric was fine, the brocade looking to be made of a good heft, it did not have any complex embroidery or detailing upon it: the buttons and fastenings were simple but neatly made, and it was a modest affair, far more so than Theophilus might have expected of a gentleman of Mr Coffey’s standing, had he not seen a similar suit in muted peach shades the day previous. “Sir, if I am late, I—”

“You aren’t late,” Mr Coffey interrupted him, his voice smooth and easy. He kept his face beneath the shade of his parasol, and although the day was fine, he wore green cloth gloves over his hands. “I asked that you join me at nine o’clock – it is scarce past eight. I would not scold you for reading on as mild a day as this one. The cold doesn’t bother you?”

“I have my cloak, sir,” Theophilus said, his voice quiet. He hadn’t noticed the temperature, in all honesty, especially because the slight chill was softened by the warmth of the sun, and he had been focused entirely on the text of the page in front of him.

“ _Sophia_ ,” Mr Coffey said softly, gesturing to the book. “Are you enjoying it?”

Theophilus glanced down at the book in his hand, feeling its weight and the smoothness of its leather cover, pressing his thumb to the bare yield of the fabric. “It is Mrs Lennox’s third novel,” he said quietly.

“Fourth,” Mr Coffey corrected. “Or do you not include _The Female Quixote_ in your calculation?”

“Mrs Lennox’s name does not appear on the cover plate of _The Female Quixote_ ,” Theophilus said. “Its author is cited as anonymous.”

“And yet,” Mr Coffey said, and Theophilus’ mouth fell open as Mr Coffee, his parasol held by its stem in the crook between his shoulder and neck, delicately took the book from Theophilus’ hands, retaining the mark of Theophilus’ page with one finger as he turned to the cover page with the other, and Theophilus looked down at the note there, _From the author of the Female Quixote_. “It is not often one is permitted to be anonymous and infamous in one stroke,” Mr Coffey murmured, his perfect lips quirking in an expression of mild humour. It was not a humour that Theophilus understood, and he said nothing, waiting for Mr Coffey to put his hand out once more.

Theophilus took back his book.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Mr Coffey said. “Are you enjoying _Sophia_ , Mr Essex?”

“I have not yet completed my perusal of it.”

“You must have scarce four chapters left.” _Three_. “You haven’t formed an opinion as yet?”

“I could not possibly, Mr Coffey, without reading to the end,” Theophilus said. “No more than I could opine my feelings on a work of art whilst a portion of it was hidden from my view.”

His lips curved more entirely, more perfectly, the cupid’s bow shifting as though its string were pulled back, and Mr Coffey’s tone was warm as he asked, “Have you never read a book, Mr Essex, and set it aside in frustration, unable to force yourself to read it to its end?”

Theophilus felt his brows furrow, his lips frown, and he glanced up now to Mr Coffey’s face, although wearing the dark glasses that he did – and for what corrective purpose they were intended, Theophilus had not the faintest idea – he could not ascertain what light might be in them. “No, sir,” Theophilus said gravely. “Never.”

“Have you read any of Mrs Lennox’s other novels?”

“No, Mr Coffey,” he said. “Although I have read _The Female Quixote_.”

“And what did you think of Arabella’s adventures?” Mr Coffey asked, leaning slightly forward, and Theophilus pressed his lips together a moment, not knowing what answer might be appropriate to give.

“The two volumes have been widely praised, Mr Coffey.”

“Certainly, they have,” was the reply. “But did _you_ enjoy them?”

Theophilus’ gaze flitted lower. “I could not say, sir.”

Mr Coffey sighed, a soft sigh that sounded to Theophilus, although these things were difficult to be entirely certain of, to be one of gentle exasperation – it was a sigh he had heard from tutors and friends alike, in his lifetime.

When he looked up at Mr Coffey’s face, his smile had softened, the bow’s string permitted to relax. “No, Mr Essex,” said Mr Coffey, in warm, quiet tones. “I suppose you could not.

Reaching up and slightly adjusting his hat, Theophilus picked up his satchel, holding it under his arm. “I will walk with you, sir,” he said softly. “If you are bound for your offices.”

“I told you nine o’clock,” Mr Coffey said.

“If it is not too bold of me to ask, sir, are you walking with the intention of beginning your day’s work?”

“It is not bold in the least, Essex: yes, I am.”

“Then as your secretary I ought match you.”

“The club to my diamond,” Mr Coffey said.

“Sir?”

“Nothing, Essex. Very well, let us walk.”

Naturally, Theophilus’ gait was longer than Mr Coffey’s, but Theophilus was not unaccustomed to adjusting the speed of his promenade to match a slower partner’s, and he noted while hanging back to walk alongside him that Mr Coffey’s parasol was matched to the green tint of his blouse. Apparently noting Theophilus’ upward glance, he said, “I have a sensitivity to the sun. My skin burns swiftly as a paper over candle flame.”

“That too is the purpose, then, of your eyeglasses?”

“It is,” Mr Coffey said. “On a day such as this, the strain upon my eyes is most unpleasant, if I move without their being protected, and I become most uncommon afflicted by agonising cephalalgy.”

He had a pleasant voice, mellifluous to the ear – his enunciation was not notably aristocratic in its particulars, but there was a cultivated nature to his cadence that reminded Theophilus more of a singing voice than a speaking one, as though Mr Coffey dwelled often on how best to lay tone and inflection on each word uttered. It was a humorous thought, Theophilus considered distantly, and briefly considered how it might be rendered in the form of some humorous sketch, but such things were beyond his natural ability.

“Are you sensitive to the sun, Essex?”

“Sensitive, sir?”

“Do you burn under its kiss?” When Mr Coffey pronounced the word, his lips shifted, and as came forth the sibilant hiss, Theophilus saw, even glancing his way without turning to examine his face, the pink bud of his tongue against the set of his white teeth, his lips parted to allow the articulation of the word.

Theophilus’ cheeks felt slightly warm, and he was embarrassed for his moment’s pause before he said, “No, sir.”

“Owing to your Greek blood, no doubt.”

“I do not know, sir.”

“I envy you.”

“Sir?”

“You sit so well beneath the sunshine, the radiant beam better to caress your cheeks. Were I to do as you do, I should verily smoke.”

He knew not how best to respond, his tongue benumbed in the bed of his mouth, but if his silence bothered Mr Coffey, he did not make a point of saying so. Mr Coffey had yet to express disapproval at Theophilus’ silence, although he asked so great a number of questions Theophilus felt as though he had exchanged his place with that of a reference librarian in the Cambridge school hall – Mr Coffey rarely asked questions with definitive answers, but seemed most intent upon gleaning what Theophilus thought upon one subject or other, in his opinions, and this was not conversation to which Theophilus was naturally inclined.

Mr Greenwich had not, in four years of service, asked so many times after Theophilus’ notions on one thing or another than Mr Coffey had in two days, and Theophilus found it a strange and disarming tendency on Mr Coffey’s part, although Mr Coffey had, thus far, taken every polite expression of ignorance or uncertainty for the gentle refusal it was, and had not persisted in such a way as to make their conversation unduly tense.

Mr Greenwich had never asked his opinion on anything: Mr Greenwich, in fact, had well-taken to Theophilus’ personal philosophy of keeping his every opinion to himself, and would spend a great many hours in the course of the working day soliloquising upon any number of topics, safe in the knowledge that his secretary would neither repeat them to another party nor argue against them as they were posited: he would be a silent listener, and therefore, as adequate for relieving tension in a stressful hour as a personal diary.

Some men’s diaries were so profound as to be worth publishing, that other men might learn from their wisdom; in the case of Mr Greenwich’s, Theophilus might campaign for such a journal, failing the acquisition of the man himself, to be burned to naught but cinders.

They stood now in the entrance hall of Mr Coffey’s offices, Theophilus moving to close the door neatly behind them as Mr Coffey folded his parasol, tying it neatly before he hung it upon the rack. Mr Coffey owned the building in which they stood, but was not its sole occupant, and two other men operated their businesses from within its bounds – upon the uppermost floor were the offices of Mr Aaron Wright, Esq., a lawyer, and below him, one Doctor Kipling, a physician.

Mr Coffey’s purpose in these offices was primarily to collate and edit a monthly publication, in which were published a variety of essays, fictions, and poems alike, but he pursued his own personal endeavours in business alike – yesterday alone, Theophilus had examined business accounts and shipping manifests, articles and treaties, contracts of property and employment, and even examined what had seemed to be some manner of amusing riddle, sent to Mr Coffey by a friend.

It seemed to Theophilus – although he should never be so bold as to voice the thought – that Mr Coffey had some difficulty concentrating his focus upon a singular topic for any length of time, no matter how sensible it might be to do so.

“Mr Essex?” Mr Coffey asked as he removed his hat.

“Yes, Mr Coffey?”

Casually, simply, in the voice of a man pursuing news of the weather, “Have you ambitions in life?”

It seemed to Theophilus to be as open a question as the sky, and he felt no more equipped to give an answer than he might feel equipped to pluck down a star. He was silent for a moment, looking to Mr Coffey for further elucidation, but when none was forthcoming, he said, “I believe every man has, Mr Coffey.”

“What are yours?”

“To be a good man, sir,” he said, hoping this would be as broad an answer to douse Mr Coffey’s apparent interest: to his distant horror, Mr Coffey appeared fascinated, and turned his gaze upon Theophilus as he drew his eyeglasses from their perch upon his nose, revealing his eyes. Their chestnut colour was mottled with flecks of green, as though pieces of malachite had been driven deeply into the bark of a tree, and then laid into Mr Coffey’s irises. Even with oils and some hours by which to work, Theophilus did not believe he might replicate their colour, but the thought of pursuing the task made dry his tongue, and he ached to take a sip of water.

“To be a good man,” Mr Coffey repeated with relish, plainly delighted, and Theophilus found himself embarrassed by the focus of his attention, wishing to turn away his head and put himself more swiftly to the day’s work ahead of them. “If only all men shared your aspirations, Mr Essex.”

“All men ought, sir,” Theophilus said quietly, feeling as though he had been backed into some corner, or better yet, to the edge of some precipice unknown. “Is it not a commandment from our Lord God, that we should each be humble, and think of others before ourselves, and in these two tasks make better the world for ourselves and our fellow man?”

“Many men would reference those self-same commandments,” Mr Coffey said, “to better push his colleagues to action he approved of: it is the rare man who believes in them so much as to truly humble himself, if he might be benefited instead.”

Theophilus was silent, unbuckling the weight of his cloak at his neck and folding it neatly over his arm, moving to open the door to Mr Coffey’s offices to allow him to step in before Theophilus himself.

“Truly, Mr Essex,” said Mr Coffey as he entered, “have you such faith in your fellow man, as to believe all of them would truly choose to be kind and humble, when instead they might choose to be rich?”

“My faith is in God, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said.

“God,” Mr Coffey said, carefully drawing the screen upon the window, that the sun not stream in unimpeded: now, Theophilus was aware of the way in which the office’s rooms were constructed, that the sunlight did not land upon Mr Coffey’s desk nor upon the small table in the next room, no doubt considered for sunny days as this one. “An easier recipient for one’s belief than one’s fellow man. The errors of our Lord God might be posited by some and debated by others, but that is all: in the case of our fellow man, more than his errors, but his crimes, his cruelties, are inalienable facts of being. They are the core of our every history, our every narrative – it is the nature of man, we know, to be cruel.”

“No, sir,” Theophilus said.

“No?” Mr Coffey repeated, and turned: immediately, Theophilus turned his head away.

“I spoke out of turn, sir, I—”

“You didn’t. Pray, go on.”

“I would not, sir.”

“I have offended you.”

“No, sir.”

“It was not my intention. You will find in my employ, Mr Essex, that I so often speak without thinking: in every man there is a flaw, and thoughtlessness is one of mine. Please, do accept my apology.”

“There is no need for apology,” Theophilus said, “for no offence has been given.”

“And in my attempts at your provocation, do they not offend you?”

“Provocation, sir?”

“I ask you questions, Essex.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Despite the lack of answer given.”

“I give answers, sir.”

“As you say, Essex,” Mr Coffey said, “although the answer to every question I ask of you seems to be one you either do not know, or could not comment upon.”

“I must apologise, sir, if my answers displease, I merely—”

“You do not displease me, Essex,” Mr Coffey said. He interrupted Theophilus so often, and ever so smoothly, and yet Theophilus could not bring himself to comment upon the fact: his cheeks felt very warm indeed, and he looked at Mr Coffey where the other man leaned back against his desk, his gaze fixated on Theophilus and Theophilus alone, as though he deserved to be so considered a focal point. The idea made his skin itch. “You baffle me.”

“Baffle you, sir?” Theophilus repeated. In a tone of deferent apology, he added, “It is not my intention.”

“No,” Mr Coffey agreed, smiling, his malachite flecks aglitter in the shine of his eyes. “You do not wish to baffle, do you? You would rather no man considered you at all.”

Stunned, Theophilus fell quite silent, and moved to hang his cloak and his hat alike, carefully taking up Mr Coffey’s own parasol and hat to set those aside too: even as he moved, he was aware of Mr Coffey’s eyes settled upon his back, a weight he could not readily ignore.

It seemed to him that Mr Coffey would be far easier with which to cope if the extent of their interactions was fulfilled by Theophilus sketching him in private, for he felt so entirely overwhelmed he knew not how to voice it – and how _could_ he voice it? He could never.

Was this the way in which men treated their secretaries, in these times?

With Mr Greenwich, Theophilus had been treated as a resource, a young man well-informed and diligent in his time-keeping, his accounting, and his paperwork: Mr Coffey seemed to consider him some amalgam of an opponent on the floor of the forum and a fellow student of philosophy. His tone was ever friendly, kind, engaged, and yet to be the subject of such unfathomably focused attention made Theophilus feel as though he were being singularly illuminated where others were permitted the quiet company of darkness, and he felt so agonisingly exposed as to gain new sympathy for the plight of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, when first they were made aware of their nakedness.

“I am certain I do not know what it is you mean, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said softly. “Perhaps there are men who in their aspect desire to act as a riddle for other men to unravel: I am no such man.”

“And yet a riddle you are, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey murmured. For a moment, they locked eyes, and it felt to Theophilus so overwhelming as if a bolt of lightning had struck him on the crown of the head, for Mr Coffey’s gaze was so intent as to be painful, and he turned his head away with more rapidity than he might have had Mr Coffey rendered a blow against his cheek. “I hope I do not wound you, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said softly, his quiet voice carrying well in the silence of the room. “For I like you very much, for what I know of you: I should not like to bully you from my office with my questions and my attention.”

“I am your secretary, sir,” Theophilus replied. “I do not believe it is broadly considered an act of subjugation to subject one’s secretary to idle conversation.”

Mr Coffey laughed: how beautiful a sound it was, for if his words were poetically appointed, music to be found in their every syllable and element of diction, his laughter was something elevated even over that.

“You are witty, Essex,” Mr Coffey said. “And yet one cannot escape the impression that you do not intend to be.”

“No, sir,” Theophilus said, with more severity than he intended. “It is a flaw I should like to rid myself of, if I only knew where it ended and began. It is not one I have been made aware of, before now. I shall do my best to rid myself of its taint, sir, if you will only warn me when it rears its ugly head.”

Mr Coffey was smiling, beaming: Theophilus was assaulted with the radiant vision of his white teeth and the curve of his cupid’s bow lip at once, and was arrested by the combination. He was overwhelming, as a painting by a master: he felt he would need some weeks to truly come to terms with it, as long as he had ever taken to truly feel at home with any beautiful work of art.

“Do you never wonder, Mr Essex, what it is that goes on in other men’s heads?” Mr Coffey asked the question intently, with focus, and Theophilus found the question to be one of unpleasant consideration – he had found in his lifetime that to judge what was going on in the heads of other man was a task Sisyphean, a pursuit of purest futility, and yet Coffey poised the question in such a way as to imply he was trying most ardently to imagine what might be going on in Theophilus’, or that Theophilus was doing the opposite.

He hoped keenly that the implication was the latter. The idea of Mr Coffey discovering anything Theophilus kept in the safety of his own head – or indeed, _anybody_ gaining such insight into the machination of his thoughts – was one most distressing.

“No, sir,” Theophilus said. “It seems to me that a man’s thoughts are his own: what matter of intelligencer should I be, attempting to ascertain such things without his invitation?”

“Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said beamishly, clapping together his still-gloved hands.

“Mr Coffey?” Theophilus asked, uncertain.

“You are a _marvel_.”

Theophilus did not know if he was being mocked – he did not believe he was, for this seemed like a strange angle at which to pursue mockery of anybody – but he did know that he did not care for it, and knew not how to respond.

“If it pleases you, sir,” Theophilus said. And then, quickly, before Mr Coffey might ask something else of him, or make another statement inordinately cryptic as to Theophilus’ character, “I shall fetch for you the morning’s paper, sir, and some tea.”

Mr Coffey smiled at him, close-lipped, inescapably lovely, and then said quietly, “Very well, Mr Essex. Thank you.”

When he returned from his errands, Mr Coffey’s exuberant mood seemed to have mellowed somewhat, to his relief – it was some hours before he interrupted Theophilus’ careful perusal of an essay to ask if Theophilus, of all things, had a favourite fruit.

He declined to answer, and when Mr Coffey laughed and clapped together his handsome hands, along with the swelteringly ponderous weight of Mr Coffey’s gaze on him, so uncomfortable that he might have squirmed beneath it (were Theophilus one to allow himself such indignity under the gaze of another man), he felt, to his own surprise, a sense of fondness.

It was not, after all, wholly unexpected: there was ever a pleasure, Theophilus felt, in a man or object’s predictability.

Mr Coffey was anything but unpredictable, and yet this, this seemed to fit the pattern of which Mr Coffey’s conversations were made.

Understanding would come, Theophilus could only hope, in increments.

“Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said, at the day’s end.

“Mr Coffey?”

“Will you finish your book tonight? _Sophia_?”

“Yes, sir, I expect so.”

“Will you tell me what you think of it, tomorrow?”

“I have no doubt you will ask me, sir.”

“And will you answer me?”

“I would not ignore a question poised, sir.”

“Perhaps not,” Mr Coffey said. “But it seems you would not answer it, either.”

They stood at an impasse.

“Good night, Mr Essex,” said Mr Coffey, finally: Mr Coffey might burn beneath the light of the sun, but it seemed to Theophilus he was at risk of burning beneath the light of his smile. It would be a not wholly unpleasant way to perish, Theophilus felt.

He said breathlessly, “Good night, sir,” and walked home to the boarding house as quickly as he dared.


	3. Chapter 3

**HENRY**

Henry did miss Andrew, somewhat.

The young man was a bright spark, ever creative, and had a habit of interrogating many of Henry’s opinions – rarely did it seem to Henry that he took issue with most of the standpoints Henry took himself, but instead merely that he wished to understand their providence as much was possible. Many an evening they had spent speaking over a task as to what it meant to be _good_ , in such vague times, speaking on everything from the loftiest of philosophies to the most menial of notions, and never was Henry bored with him – or, he hoped, was Andrew ever bored with him.

He had been taken into the royal service, working in the offices of the king regent, and much as it saddened him to lose so capable a secretary, he had long-since known a more suitable position would arise for him, and Andrew had been very good about leaving.

Yes, he did miss young Mr Andrew – but that he missed his past secretary was not at all to say his needs were not met by his new one, and not at all to say that Essex left him bored or out of sorts.

Take the current conversation, for example.

“You mean to say you dislike all of them?” Henry asked, unable to keep the smile from his face, and Essex glanced up from the papers he was carefully organising, for the packet had come loose in its delivery from Oxford, and he now had to put the pages back in order that the essays within might be suitably edited.

“I do not believe that is what I said, Mr Coffey,” Essex said, in the gently chiding tone he often used when Henry attempted to extrapolate an opinion from Essex’s posited lack thereof.

Mr Essex was in Henry’s mind, after some three months of his service, an endlessly amusing conversational partner: speaking with him was not unlike conversing with a heavy brick wall that, now and then, aimed a barb at you for so addressing it. Once he had stated a position – that position, ordinarily, being one of unerring neutrality – it was difficult to shake him from it, and yet in their discourse Henry felt an enthusiasm he had rarely felt for another person in life – the thrill of speaking with Essex on any subject of importance was not dissimilar to the delight he ordinarily experienced only in his first pursuit of a new craft or hobby, and it did not seem liable to fade in the near future.

“Have you read much of Mr Swift’s work, Essex?”

“Many of his essays, sir, and his poems besides.”

“ _Gulliver’s Travels_?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you like that?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Mr Essex, it seems to me at times that our conversation might proceed in much the same manner even were I to replace you with an automaton who could say only, “ _I couldn’t say, sir_ ,” and perhaps _“I don’t know_ ,” or some variation.”

Mr Essex looked up from his work, giving Henry a small, tight frown, his brow furrowing, his dark eyes focused. He said, with what Henry felt was a sardonic tonelessness, “I am sorry to hear that, sir,” and looked back to his work, before declaring, in mild and easy tones, “When some manner of automata is created that should be able to sort these papers to your satisfaction, I shall tender my resignation without complaint.”

“Oh, Mr Essex, please,” Henry said. “I would complain heartily for the both of us if such an occasion ever arose.”

Mr Essex, for a moment, was very still, his nose still pointed down to the surface of the desk, and then he turned his head ever so slightly, his gaze turning to Henry’s face. Henry stared, dumbfounded, at the thin line of Mr Essex’s scarred lip as it shifted slightly, and for the first time in the month they had known one another, Henry saw the corners of his mouth incline upward instead of down.

A smile.

In an instant, Henry felt desperately giddy, his head spinning, and he sat down upon the edge of his desk, where before he had been standing.

“I believe this essay is collated in its entirety, Mr Coffey,” he said quietly, still with that astounding crescent, so scant as it was, pulling at his lip. “The other papers will take me a while longer.”

“Oh, there’s no rush, Essex,” Henry said breezily. “We shall read them quickly once they are repaired to their natural state.”

“Quite, sir,” Essex said. Henry was quiet, unable to tear his gaze away from the ghost of what Mr Essex would probably not even admit was a smile, its curve as graceful – and again as subtle – as the bend of a stripling tree in a breeze, but after a few moments of admiring it, it faded, replaced with Mr Essex’s customary purse of his lips. “Sir?”

“Yes, Essex?”

Essex leaned slightly forward, and for the first time Henry’s gaze lowered to his outstretched hand, which held a stack of papers.

“Oh, of course,” Henry said, quickly taking them, and he moved to sit down at his desk, but even as he sank into the comforting rest of his seat, he kept his gaze on Essex’s back, watching him as he took up each paper, examining the penmanship to see what pile it belonged to. “Mr Essex?”

“Yes, Mr Coffey?”

“I care very little for Mr Swift,” Henry said. “I like his work best when it is parodied by a more capable poet.”

He heard, so quiet as to be almost inaudible even to his own inhuman ears, a soft exhalation from Essex’s nostrils – could so near-silent a sound be pronounced a laugh? “Very well, sir,” Mr Essex said, and they went about their respective tasks in silence.

* * *

**HENRY**

From beneath heavily lidded eyes, threatening as they were to let him doze, Henry watched Hanna in the light of the fire, her features illuminated by its gentle flicker, that he might see every line wrought in her face by the passing of time.

She was a prim woman, one who oft seemed haughty at first glance, with a particular focus on that which she felt was _proper_ , and she ever held herself as though she were soon to be visited by the king regent himself.

It was just the two of them together in the garden, the sun some hours since set, and Henry lay on his side upon a stone chaise he had carved himself, some two hundred years before, his cheek resting on a very poorly embroidered cushion he had embroidered himself less than a decade ago. He was a sentimental man: he liked to keep such things.

Hanna was sitting on the ground beside the fire they had built together – the garden was no great and lofty thing, but in it were planted many trees to give sufficient shade from the sun if Henry chose to walk in it during the day, and as he had initially purchased the space here some two hundred years previous, the trees were each aged and wide at their bases, shielding them from the glances of passers-by – although who it was that might be passing at this stage in the night, the hour since past two, Henry could not say. Upon her lap, she wove a complicated set of strings about her aging fingers, their strands glittering in the light – it was a very old form of divination, Hanna had told him, that once, a great many centuries past, the mother of all the mothers that would lead to her own, had learned from a spider in the forested mountains of Macedonia.

Henry knew very little of divination: he knew it was pleasant to watch Hanna Woodbury work by firelight, because the strings with which she worked were made of gathered spiders’ webs, and between her fingers, surely and steadily, they would turn to spun gold. Already, their white colour was beginning to darken to something like the colour of honeycomb, a sheen upon them.

He had his doubts that the divination was the outcome of the process that Hanna truly considered the priority, but it would be ungentlemanly to say so.

“The anaemia is improved, I think,” she said softly. “This morning, young Mr Landrake scarcely felt the effects of last night’s feeding, although he’s been eating like a horse.”

“He’s a young man,” Henry murmured, aware of the soporific lilt to his tone, liable to drift as he was at any moment. “An appetite is a sign of good health. I believe you to be correct, as far as the anaemia is concerned: I taste more iron in his blood, and although my tongue is no medical professional, his blood seems to me to be healthier than it was.”

“You needn’t supervise me, if you wish to sleep, you know,” Hanna said quietly: between her palms, she played silent music on her changing harp strings. This was slow, delicate work: the silk would not truly turn to gold until the dawn rose, and then it would shine beneath the sun’s kiss, blessed by the light of Helios.

“I’m not supervising,” Henry replied. “For some twelve years I have observed this quarterly ritual of yours, Mrs Woodbury, for it brings me much peace, and occurs to me to be something quite beautiful. If my presence bothers you—”

“You know it doesn’t,” Hanna chided him, and Henry smiled. “I am an old woman, you know.”

“Not so old,” Henry said.

“Sixty-two summers behind me,” Hanna said. “Another crowning. Sixty-three summers I might abide, Mr Coffey, but sixty-three winters, I am not so sure.”

“This seems to me to be a maudlin turn to the conversation,” Henry said softly. “I cannot ascertain its purpose.”

“I believe I shall teach Mr Woodrow’s boy the art,” Mrs Woodbury said, in the tone of pronouncement. “Fourteen years has the child: a good age. And I am long-since past the age to bear children of my own – if he ever chooses to… Well, I hardly know what he might choose next, but if he bore his own daughters, or— Well. He might teach them. I should hate to see the art die with me.”

Mr Woodrow’s boy, Ambrose, had cast aside his petticoats at the age of nine, and insisted upon his own breeches. He and his father had quarrelled most violently about it for four months in ’59, until the boy had declared he would be taking his father’s name, and Ambrose Snr could either accept the fact or he would take it posthumously – this last had been punctuated with a rather violent blow from a (mercilessly cool) poker.

Whether it was the hard blow to the neck that drew the tears to Mr Woodrow Snr’s eyes or the emotion that bubbled within him, it was difficult to say, but he had cried in the way only strongmen can, every tear heavy as molten brass, and embraced his son as though for the first time.

Henry set his jaw, looking from Hanna to the fire instead, and staring at the dark embers there, feeling their warmth on his skin. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Mr Woodrow is not so old,” Hanna said seriously. “But Mr McElroy’s every birthday has surprised this these past five, and I grow more infirm with each day that passes. Lucy has told me she wishes to go down to London, and take tutelage in magic at the Eurydice school.”

“I know,” Henry said. “Two months are behind us, now, since she told me of her ambitions in the area of conjuration, and I told her I should match the school’s contributions, if she earned her scholarship there.”

“ _Henry_ ,” Hanna said, her tone too full of fatigue to be truly scandalised. “What will you do, come the spring, if you find yourself with no gardener, no housekeeper, your butler married to that travelling girl, one maid gone to school, hm?”

“If you are so certain you will die before the new year, Mrs Woodbury,” Henry demanded, his voice too severe even to his own ears, “what concern is it of yours?”

Hanna looked at him reproachfully, and Henry sat up from where he lay, gathering his cushion into his lap and fastening his hands in its fraying fabric, his jaw set. Shame settled in the pit of his belly like swallowed stone.

“How long have you lived in this house, on this occasion?”

“Two score and twelve years,” Henry murmured.

Hanna’s expression shifted, and she focused anew on her stringwork, her lips pulled into a solemn frown, her brow knitted. “I am telling you about Ambrose,” she said softly, “because I should like for you to take him with you, where ‘ere next you go to. You cannot remain in one house for longer than sixty years, with your features as they are – you ought not have stayed forty. Not amongst mundies.”

“I so like the gardens here in Birmingham, Mrs Woodbury,” Henry said, more softly now. “And the golden brick of its streets, and the people here, who know life to be precious. I like this garden, and I like my offices.”

“Your affection will not shield you from those who would harm you,” Hanna said. “And certainly wouldn’t shield the others in this household – Messrs Landrake and Judge, or Mrs Haverly and her daughter, or young Sarah, nor even the Woodrows, junior and senior. You cannot linger here forever, vampire that you are, and expect no one to notice. You have a duty—”

“I know.”

“These things do not happen of their own accord.”

“I know that better than you, Mrs Woodbury, for I have performed the process some dozen times before. I need neither your advice nor your cajoling in this arena.”

She hesitated now, seeming to sense the jagged sharpness in his voice, the crack to its tone although he did not mean to allow it to do so. “I hope it is not us that have kept you here so long,” said Hanna. “That you felt you could not move on, not wishing to leave us behind you.”

Henry said nothing, lacking the heart to either confirm that which she said or lie and deny it, and Hanna sighed.

“Oh, Henry,” she said, her voice heavy with quiet grief – and why should she grieve, when it was her death on the horizon, and not Henry’s own? “I am so very sorry.”

“I cannot bear any more of this morose talk, Mrs Woodbury,” Henry said, his tone all but beseeching. “Do let us speak of something else as we wait for the sun to rise.”

“Very well, Mr Coffey,” Hanna murmured. “Do you know the story of Arachne and Athena?”

“I do,” Henry said, lying down again. “I have heard iterations of that story some dozen times – but I do not believe I have ever heard yours, and I should feel privileged to.”

Looking into burning embers of the fire, he listened to Hanna’s voice, taking in very few of her words.

* * *

**HENRY**

“There is our day’s business concluded,” Henry said, with a small smile. “Thank you, Mr Essex, you may depart. I shall see you Monday morning.”

Mr Essex hesitated at the side of Henry’s desk, even as he delicately wiped off the nib of his pen – he was very careful with quills and pencils alike, treating them as though they were made of some lovely glass liable to shatter in his hands, and Henry had yet to see him allow even the barest spot of ink to mar his cuffs, something that Henry faulted in not irregularly.

“Mr Coffey,” Essex said, the words poised in tones that Henry had not yet heard from him – careful, calculated, and yet soft in their pronunciation.

“Mr Essex?”

“Are you quite well, sir?”

“Whatever do you mean, Essex?”

“Our day’s business is concluded, sir,” Essex said quietly, “but since nine o’clock this morning, we have spent the day in silence. I hope I do not overstep, sir, but it is ordinarily your nature to read with great passion from some passage you either approve of or disagree with several times in the course of a day, and you have not so much as commented aloud on an aside; nor indeed have you turned to me and asked some question of my opinions, as is ordinarily you wont. You seem of such low spirits – I wondered if perhaps today you have suffered one of your cephalalgies, if I ought have sooner inquired as to your health.”

Henry did not know what showed in his face as he looked up at Essex’s blank face, to which he had become so accustomed, these past weeks. He had still to conjure another smile from Essex’s thin lips, but he had learned, he felt, to decipher the subtle lines in Essex’s barely present expressions – Mr Essex tightened his lips in such a case as he disapproved of something; his brow subtly lifted when something gained his interest; when Henry asked him a question suitably diverting, Mr Essex would narrow his eyes as he thought, that one could almost see the clockwork machinations going on behind them – and yet in this moment, Henry felt he could glean nothing.

“I have overstepped,” Essex said, and now Henry saw an expression with which he was familiar, for it showed in Essex’s face often enough, and Henry hated it every time: his mouth crumpled more than it frowned, his brow not furrowed, but pulled miserably down – shame. “My apologies, Mr Coffey,” he said he stepped rapidly away. “I did not mean—”

Henry’s hand enclosed Essex’s wrist, stopping him in his tracks, and Essex gasped – Henry could only guess – at the cool temperature of Henry’s grasp.

“Please, do wait,” Henry said. “You have done so such thing.” He released his clerk, clenching his hand as he drew it back into his own lap: he felt shame himself, now, for Essex’s skin felt warm and livid, and it had been a long time indeed since Henry had really _touched_ another man except to drink from, and in recent months, he rather ached for—

He did not know for what he ached, really. It would be the ease of moments to walk into some brothel and bring a boy into his bed, and yet he knew it would not satisfy whatever cool ache was settled beneath his skin, for it never had in the past. The ache, the loneliness, would linger until he could suitably distract himself, and he merely had to weather it until such distraction came.

“Why is it you think me so quick to take offence?” he asked, trying not to sound so wounded as he felt. “I would not chide you for asking after my health.”

Essex said nothing, his lips pressed loosely together, his face a mask Henry could not penetrate, and Henry sighed, clenching his hands further together, his fingertips pressing into the hard meat of his palms as though that sensation might offer distraction from the hollow ache within him.

“I find myself of low mood,” he confessed, finally. “I am not ill, Mr Essex: a day’s rest is all I need to return to my usual exuberant self, all the better to irritate you with.”

“Irritate me?” Essex repeated, tilting his head.

“To ask you questions, I mean.”

“Oh,” Essex said, turning away, and then he turned back. Once more, Henry watched him perform this dance, and then he said, on his third revolution, “They do not irritate me. Your questions. You merely ask me things I do not often think of. It would…” He furrowed his brow very tightly a moment, twisting his nose, and then went on, “It would irritate me, sir, were it the case that I contributed to your low mood, and you made no reprimand of me, that I might ameliorate my behaviour.”

“No, Essex,” Henry said. “No, it is nothing you have done.”

“I would not pry into your private matters,” Essex said lowly. “With your family or your wife, whatever might have so lowered your mood, but I…” He shook his head, as if scolding himself, and took up his cloak. “It is of no consequence. I hope a restful Sunday assists in your mood, Mr Coffey.”

“Thank you, Essex. I have no wife, you know.” He did not know why he said it. It was true, certainly, but it was of no consequence – Essex would not be the first man in the world to assume him married where he was not, and yet for some reason, it seemed important that Henry not lie to him, even by omission.

“You are widowed, sir?” Essex asked.

“No. I have never married.”

“But you—” Essex started, and Henry watched him hungrily, eager for what he might say next, but this was evidently too much for Essex to let pass his lips, for he clamped them shut again. _But you…_ what? Henry wished he could ask, but he could not bring himself to, not today. “Good night, Mr Coffey.”

“Good night, Essex,” Henry murmured.

It lingered with him, that exchange.

* * *

**HENRY**

“Thinking of your secretary again?” Joseph asked as he entered the library. Henry was sitting upon a rug beside the fire, his lute balanced upon his knees, but the music felt stale to his ears even as he attempted to play it, and so he did naught more th-an lazily strum the strings from time to time, filling the air with pleasant, meaningless sound.

He had been thinking of Essex, in truth.

He had been thinking of the warmth of Essex’s wrist beneath his palm, the heat of his skin: it was a most indecorous thing to think about one’s secretary, how warm his skin was, and yet it was the thought he was having. In all his life, Henry had always been very careful to avoid relations with his domestic staff, lest the process lead to contretemps, and whilst Essex did not live in Henry’s home, it seemed to Henry that their interactions were so commonplace as to be held within the domestic sphere.

How long had it been, since he had had a gentleman in his bed?

Years. Decades, even.

The thought made him feel very, very cold, and most unhappy, and for some reason conjured up images of Essex’s thin lips curving ever-so-slightly at their edges, a smile… No. No, a man and his secretary, it simply would not do – and Essex was not merely his secretary, but a _mundie_ , too, uninitiated in the ways of magic, not knowing what it was that Henry was.

And young. Twenty-six, that was no great, wise old age – he had scarcely seen the world, and like as not would be disgusted at the idea a man should wish to touch him, let alone his employer.

“I shall note your silence as a yes,” Joseph said, and Henry looked up at him as he sat down on a cushion.

“You’ve been with Gráinne,” Henry said quietly, noting in Joseph’s countenance not merely his current smile, but a warmth and relaxation, the sort that arose from having been smiling for quite some hours before.

“We promenaded in the Vauxhall Gardens,” Joseph said breathlessly, his lips drawn into a smile full of dreaming whimsy, his eyes far away as he looked at Gráinne in his mind, and not at Henry. And why shouldn’t he? To be in love, Henry was informed, that was a wonderful thing. “She took by arm, and declared that if I should release her, she would declare me a cad. That a gentleman would escort a lady.”

“I’m pleased your courtship is going so well,” Henry said softly. “Have you yet proposed?”

“Not yet,” Joseph said. “I… I don’t feel that I could, whilst employed as your butler. I have savings, that I might find for us a home together, but I could not very well live elsewhere and act—”

“I know,” Henry said. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask – my storage house in Old Square requires a new foreman.”

Joseph’s lips parted. “Oh, Henry, you needn’t—”

“I needn’t,” Henry murmured. “But if it would please you, I should like that you take the position there – there are few men in Birmingham, if not England, that I would think might match your capacity for such a position, and not one who might surpass you.”

“I come with glad tidings, and you offer me such opportunity as this,” Joseph said, “but you seem morose.”

“I’m very glad for you, Joseph. Please, don’t let the mood of an old vampire douse your spirits.”

“And the melancholy of an old friend, what of that?”

“Tell me about her,” Henry murmured. “Gráinne.”

Joseph inhaled, but then he smiled, shifting on the cushion on which he sat. “She is almost as tall as I am: when we walk, we are level, and yet I don’t believe I have ever been so happy as I was today, her head leaning in against mine, her cheek upon my shoulder. She has strong hands, beautiful hands – she touched my cheek today, naught more than a dance of her fingers against my skin, and it was all I could do not to turn my mouth to kiss her palm.”

“Ah,” Henry murmured. “Young love.”

“Young, ha! She and I are the same age, you know, so close to forty.”

“With love comes a sense of youth,” Henry said, and Joseph laughed, leaning his elbows upon his knees.

“Henry.”

“Joseph.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“No,” Henry said. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“May I ask you a very bold question?”

“We are good friends, Joseph,” Henry said. “You can ask me any question you like.”

“How many years have you?” Joseph asked. “Precisely?”

“I was born in the year of our Lord 1259.”

“Five hundred years,” Joseph said. “And you have _never_ been in love?”

“No,” Henry said.

“No woman has ever…?”

“No,” Henry murmured.

Taking pity on him, Joseph said, “Gráinne speaks four languages.”

“And look at you,” Henry said, fond, “speaking only three.”

Joseph laughed, and as he went on to speak, Henry smiled, listened intently, and ignored the sense of being on a great precipice of change.

* * *

**HENRY**

Henry woke, on Sunday morning, from dreams of a body in bed beside him – nameless, faceless, but warm and present, a comforting heat and weight beside him, hair upon the pillow, his breathing even, a soothing rhythm.

As he came gently to something more like wakefulness, he imagined a quiet, careful voice saying, “Henry?”, a voice that came from thin lips, with a scar upon the skin.

Essex was handsome. He was handsome, it seemed to Henry, in the way men were handsome before he had been turned to vampirism – dark-eyed and focused, steadfast, with his dark curls, Essex was…

How would Essex respond, were Henry to turn to him, and kiss his lips?

“Would you mind if I kissed you, Essex?”

“I could not say, sir.”

Or after—

“Did you like it, Essex?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

“You can be honest.”

“I have been.”

Or something of the like.

Sighing, Henry turned upon his belly, burying his face against the pillow, and dragged the covers over his head, sinking beneath the weight of them and the comforting darkness they offered, that he might sleep beneath them.

He was so very tired of being lonely.

When he left Birmingham, where ‘ere he next went, he thought he might, for the first time, seek out other vampires, although where they might be found, he wasn’t entirely certain.

Perhaps it was different, with other vampires.

Perhaps that was the balm he needed.

Perhaps there was no balm in all the world, and he would feel like this forever more – people were, after all, so very difficult, and at times he felt that truly intimate connections, with those that would stay, were some sort of collective deception the human species played upon one another.

Essex’s lips were so very thin.

Would they part under Henry’s own? Would he sigh, softly, as Henry kissed him – would he reach to touch Henry’s clothes or gasp at him, or touch his neck, his hair? Had Theophilus Essex ever been kissed before?

He tightened his fingers in the pillow beneath him, and closed his eyes very tightly.

* * *

**HENRY**

When Henry finally rose from bed, the hour was past three, and he had a headache from too much sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**THEOPHILUS**

Breaking the quiet with the air of one continuing a long-running conversation, “Do you sing, Essex?”

“I have sung, sir,” Theophilus answered good-naturedly, and he did not look up from his work as he did so: he had learned, these weeks, that Mr Coffey’s initiation of colloquy did not mean the man expected Theophilus to cease whatever it was he was doing, nor even to look over to him. Subsequently, Mr Coffey was rapidly rising in Theophilus’ estimations to be one of the most pleasurable conversational partners with whom he had ever conversed, as it seemed to him that such things might be far more enjoyable, were the conditions ever such as these.

“Are you good?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“ _Modesty_ , Mr Essex?” There was something amused in Mr Coffey’s tone, a wine-richness that made him turn his head to glance at Mr Coffey’s expression in an attempt to glean further context. Mr Coffey was smiling a close-lipped smile, his eyes shining – this expression, Theophilus thought, was _playful_.

People did not ordinarily remain playful with Theophilus for long – either they retained a playful manner, with Theophilus becoming the game instead of the opponent, or they dispensed with such things entirely, and became cold or sharp with him, as they perceived he was to him. If nothing else, Mr Coffey’s persistence was to be admired.

“I know little about music, sir. I fear I could not adequately judge where _good_ begins.”

“You play no instruments?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you like music?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You sing hymns in church, I suppose?”

“Of course, sir.”

“In ale-houses?”

“I do not frequent such places, Mr Coffey.”

“Of course. Forgive me. I very much like to sing, Essex, although I fear the sound is not one especially beautiful – my tones are not unpleasant to the ear, but merely plain, and dull.”

 _I could not believe that, sir_ , Theophilus did not say.

“I have great affection for some variety of instruments, however, and in recent years I have devoted myself to the study of the lute. When I was a young boy, I was tutored in its makeup, and learned to play some scant chords, but never did I truly devote myself to them, and it has been a great pleasure to approach the instrument with more years beneath my belt, and of course, new eyes by which to see it.”

The idea of Mr Coffey with a lute in his hands was one impossibly romantic, and Theophilus could not help the twitch of his fingers, itching to attempt to match such a vision with pencil or paint: Mr Coffey kneeling beside a fire, perhaps, the handsome planes of his face illuminated by its light, the lute upon his lap, his graceful fingers playing over the strings…

Theophilus inclined his head, to indicate that he had heard, and said nothing. The conversation settled into something quiet: it was some minutes later that Mr Coffey asked, as though dialogue had never ceased, “Have you ever caught for yourself a fish?”

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

“Are you frightened of anything, Essex?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir.”

“You ever have nightmares?”

“I suppose I must, sir. I have been informed that everyone suffers nightmares.”

“You don’t remember any?”

“None that I recollect, sir.” Theophilus hesitated, but he had worked in Mr Coffey’s office for some weeks now, and some levity was to be permitted – and levity might include some small revelation. “I do not recall any of my dreams, sir. I forget them once I wake.” It was no great confidence, and yet not one, he did not believe, he had ever confided in anyone before now. What liberty was in such a thing.

“Oh,” Mr Coffey said, fascinated. “My dreams are very vivid, you know – I often dream of all manner of things, and where some people’s dreams are in images, you know, mine are always weighted so deeply in the senses. Sounds, sights, yes, but _scents_ , Essex, it seems to me I smell the world when I dream, and the world of my somnolence feels so very real to me, when I am ensconced in it. I dreamt I once attended a performance of a play in most ancient Athens, and sitting within the theatre, I was cognizant of the summer heat upon my bare skin, affecting my chiffon to cling to my body, and the scent of oil and smoke upon the air, and the humidity, so palpable, that one could see the beads of sweat drip out from beneath the actors’ masks as they acted.”

The idea of sweat upon the naked skin of men at theatre was one that dominated the imagination, and Theophilus was very quiet.

Then Mr Coffey asked, “Have you ever stroked a cat in the wrong direction?”

“Ah,” Theophilus said, the noise one of surprise more than rational thought moving in the direction of speech, and then he collected himself: “No, sir.”

“I have,” Mr Coffey said, not appearing to notice Theophilus’ falter. “It’s not an error I recommend.” The story he launched into was amusing, but Theophilus never quite learned how it connected to the one he had told before it. This was often the case – Mr Coffey was a passionate raconteur, but not an ordered one.

He very much liked to hear Mr Coffey speak, at length.

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

“Can you swim, Essex?”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“You swam as a child?”

“I did, sir.”

“The Greeks are a sailing people.”

“Yes, sir. My father’s father was born on a ship sailing from Athens to England, and my father’s mother hailed from Nisyros – it was formed during the Gigantomachy. Poseidon wrenched from Kos a great section of land, pierced upon the tips of his trident, and with the strength of his two great arms threw it at the giant Polybotes, as a labourer tosses from his fork a bale of hay.” It seemed not so remarkable to say – many a time, his grandmother had told him and his siblings the story, and of course, he had been told a great many other stories besides, and yet it seemed to have struck Mr Coffey dumb. He was still in his chair, his perfect lips parted, that Theophilus could see a white flash of teeth within, the pinkness of his tongue, his gaze resting upon Theophilus, and Theophilus alone.

There was something painfully heavy about that gaze, and Theophilus turned his back on it. “Sir?” he asked, keeping his own head bowed toward his desk.

“You believe that?”

“Sir?”

“The story, about the giant Polybotes and Poseidon – you believe that to be true?”

“No, sir. It is a story, sir: that is all.”

“Oh,” Mr Coffey said: to his voice there was a breathless air. “You speak Greek, Essex?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know when you say those names, you do not say them as an Englishman might.” Embarrassment coiled about his throat like a vice, and Theophilus swallowed, his cheeks feeling very hot. Before he could reply, Mr Coffey went on, “Such a wonderful orthoepy, hearing such words as a native might say them.”

The burning heat in Theophilus’ cheeks blossomed to a brighter, keener heat, so much so as to burn away the shame he had felt a moment previous, although the embarrassment was so much the brighter within him, hot as a star.

“My accent is as you hear it – I spoke English and French, as a boy, and although I have learned other languages, my accent has always been so poor. Even my French is the French of an Englishman in places, small inflections revealing me for that which I am. My mother was French. She sang very sweetly – my father would call her his _rossignol_ , but he would say it with the hard edge of the _g_ , that it tapped against his teeth instead of being softened against the roof of his mouth. I may not speak French as she did, but there is a sound she drilled into me, that I should sing it as she did: _ng_. You speak French, Essex?”

“Some, sir.”

“You know what a rossignol is?”

“It is a song-bird, sir,”

“What are they called, in Greek?”

“Aidóni, sir.”

“Aidoni,” Mr Coffey repeated, mimicking Theophilus’ pronunciation as best he could – there was something endearing in it, that he should try so very hard to copy the word as Theophilus should say it himself.

“No, sir,” Theophilus said softly.

“No?”

“Aid _oni_ , sir. Aidóni. You emphasise the second syllable.”

“Aidóni,” Mr Coffey said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” Mr Coffey said, and Theophilus could hear the smile in his voice, and when he turned to risk a glance at it, it was a smile so very beatific that he felt like sparks must be showing from the flames in his own cheeks, and he moved swiftly across the room, to the fireplace.

“Tea, sir,” he said crisply.

“Oh,” Mr Coffey said, surprised. “Yes, Mr Essex. Please.”

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

Mr Coffey moved back and forth upon the rug before the fire, and sitting at his writing desk, Theophilus watched him move one way and then the other. It was a warm day but the sky was clouded over, a sort of sticky, oppressive wetness clung to the air, and clung too to their skin. Mr Coffey had removed his coat and hung it over the back of his chair, and now moved back and forth in only his shirtsleeves. His suit was a beautifully appointed thing – of the several suits Mr Coffey owned, this was undoubtedly Theophilus’ favourite.

The base fabric was cream-coloured, with a heavy criss-crossing stripe pattern overlaid the colour of camel hair, and yellow was a colour that well-suited Mr Coffey’s colouring.

He had slightly loosened his cravat, although the ruffles of his blouse still appropriately shielded his chest and neck from view, but he had loosened the stays at his shirt cuffs, and now and then in his movements, Theophilus would catch a glimpse of his bare wrists, where the skin was so much paler than the soft brown of Mr Coffey’s face: it was a colour not unlike the surface of a varnished china.

Theophilus prided himself on having a great capacity for focus, but that capacity was wavering.

Mr Coffey had supremely delicate wrists.

 _“… would like to thank you for your eloquent contribution to our publication_. Do you have a favourite colour, Mr Essex?” Mr Coffey often segued so swiftly from dictation to idle conversation that Theophilus very nearly wrote down idle chatter often, but he had not yet strayed into doing so, although in his current state of distraction, he came the closest he yet had, his quill hovering close over the page to note down the _D._

“No, sir,” he said.

“No colour you like more than others?”

“No, sir.”

“You like all colours the same? Every colour in the world?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Coffey put his hands upon his narrow waist, turning to look at Theophilus. He was smiling beguilingly, and mercifully, his hands held like so, his cuffs fell down over his wrists and hands alike. “Mr Essex, sometimes I think perhaps you are mad.”

Mr Coffey was in high spirits this morning.

“I do not believe I am more mad than most men,” Theophilus said. “But I would posit that to prefer one colour over others is unsensible.”

“Unsensible,” Mr Coffey repeated.

“Foolish, sir,” Theophilus said. 

“ _Foolish!”_ Mr Coffey echoed, with relish. He was as delighted as he ever was, when Theophilus actually followed one of his trains of conversation, and it become something more like a dialogue than a scattered interrogation. “Why so, Mr Essex?”

“Each colour serves its place, sir,” Theophilus said. “Were I to tell you my favourite colour was green, it would be to imply I held it apart from other colours – and were I to do so, truly, I could not truly _appreciate_ the hue in all its shades, for to isolate it from others would be to eliminate its unique beauty.”

“Mr Essex, why is it that you feel the need to be circumspect in the face of whimsy?”

“Mr Coffey, one might make the case that for one man to be circumspect and for another to be whimsical is a beauty of the world bestowed upon us by our Lord God of the same weight as the rainbow.”

Mr Coffey laughed, and as he leaned back, the ribbon holding back his hair slipped loose. The dropped several inches in height, some of Mr Coffey’s hair falling loosely about his head, still gathered behind him, and Theophilus stared, dry-mouthed, as Mr Coffey drew the length of golden ribbon out from his curls, shaking his head slightly and allowing the mane to settle in thick tresses upon his shoulders.

“You know, Essex, I sometimes believe you to be a poet in an unsmiling disguise,” He said as he untied the ribbon’s tie, straightening it out between his palms. “You tell me, then, that you have no preference for any colour over another?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And by your logic, you have no preference for one man over another?”

Theophilus did not answer that question immediately, feeling it would be too easy to answer imprudently, and he considered his answer for some moments before he said, at perhaps a slightly slower pace than he should ordinarily speak, “I have no preference for one man’s _traits_ over another. Certainly, Mr Coffey, it is true that there are some men I prefer to others.”

“And where do I rank?” Mr Coffey asked immediately.

“You are my employer, sir,” Theophilus said. “By necessity, I should rank you very highly indeed.” Mr Coffey laughed, his hair a lovely mane about his head, like a golden halo, but for some reason Theophilus felt a tug of guilt within him that he should have said such a thing, even in jest – jest was not one of Theophilus’ talents. “In my estimation, Mr Coffey, you are a kind man, and an honest one, and vivacious, besides. These are all good traits.”

“I do wish my vivacity were more contagious,” Mr Coffey said.

“It is, sir.”

“Not to _you_.”

“I would not say that, sir,” Theophilus said. “It is very difficult to retain low spirits in your presence.”

Mr Coffey’s malachite-flecked eyes blinked, and his smile showed genuine surprise: like so, his head turned, his hair about his shoulders, a winsome flush beginning to glow in his cheeks, he was almost reminiscent of some male coquette, and Theophilus knew he would sketch this vision a hundred times over, when he returned to his room that evening.

“I am very pleased to hear that,” Mr Coffey murmured. “I— Wherever was I, Essex?”

“Eloquent contribution to our publication, sir.”

“Right. Well—”

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

“Can you draw, Essex?”

“Yes, sir,” Theophilus said, doing his best to keep his tone even. “I was encouraged to learn at school.”

“Do you paint?”

“I dabbled with oils at university, sir.”

“Mr Essex, I find it difficult to imagine you dabbling.”

“You needn’t, sir: those days are behind me.”

Mr Coffey laughed, and Theophilus remained very quiet, waiting for him to demand more information from him, but Mr Coffey’s ordinary interrogation was, it seemed, at an end: “I am no great artist, but I like art very much. I have always found it very admirable that some men are able to capture the world’s likeness upon vellum or canvas. I have never travelled outside of England, but I should like very much to do so, that I might see the art produced in the Colonies, or the beautiful monuments made in Italy.”

It was very rarely that Theophilus should ask a question of Mr Coffey. It was increasingly clear, as passed the weeks in Mr Coffey’s office, that Mr Coffey did not expect of him the silence that Mr Greenwich had – Theophilus was laconic by nature, and inclined to, his mother had always said, to be shy, but there was something about Mr Coffey that eased one toward conversation.

“You have never left England, sir?” he asked, and Mr Coffey looked at him with a subtle delight on his face, that Theophilus should make some small push to further the conversation.

“No,” Mr Coffey said: he was smiling, as he so often was, but this smile was distant, perhaps slightly sad in its aspect. “I am a man set in his habits, Mr Essex. I do not like to travel.”

“I thought you liked almost everything, Mr Coffey.”

“There are things that even I do not care for, Essex,” Mr Coffey said mildly, his smile now carrying an air of mild self-deprecation. “Have you travelled far yourself?”

“No, sir, never.”

“Not even to Greece?”

“No, sir.”

“I might travel better, with a companion,” Mr Coffey said.

“Perhaps, sir,” Theophilus agreed.

Mr Coffey looked at him, and laid his chin upon the palm of his hand, his smile widening. Theophilus waited for him to say something, to explain the soft focus of his stare, but none came.

“Sir?” Theophilus asked, uncertain.

“Oh, nothing, Essex,” Mr Coffey murmured. “Nothing at all.”

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

It was some weeks after this last that Theophilus walked home after Mr Coffey had confessed to his momentary despair, his cloak drawn very tightly about his shoulders, his gaze forward. It was threatening rain, and upon the air was a weight anticipant, a sort of tension warning of what would come, and the sky was very grey.

“Good evening, Mrs Quays,” he said quietly as he entered the main room of the boarding house, where a fire was burning in the hearth. The two other lodgers currently staying in the Audrey House, a pair of Welshmen who were labouring in town, looked up from their game of cards, giving him twin nods, which Theophilus returned in short order.

“Ah, Mr Essex,” Mrs Quays said brightly. “We shan’t be eating for another two hours or so. Mr Quays was hoping to inspect your room.”

“I have no objection, Mrs Quays,” Theophilus said softly. In three months, his room had not been examined, although he knew weekly inspections to be carried out of most of the lodgers within, but none had stayed so long as him, and Theophilus was given to understand that Mrs Quays liked him well, for she often pushed additional helpings of an evening meal at him, and had thrice remarked upon how well-kept was Theophilus’ appearance. “Is he home?”

“He’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll send him up when he returns.”

“Very well.”

As he ascended the stair, Theophilus was lost in thought. It was uncanny, in a way, to think of Mr Coffey as a bachelor – a gentleman of some years past thirty, with such statuesque beauty, so irrepressible a zest for life… And unmarried? Having not ever _been_ married?

The idea was one difficult to accept.

Certainly, Mr Coffey had no correspondence of which Theophilus knew with any women that seemed to be leading in the direction of marriage, and although he had known women to approach Mr Coffey, or greet him sweetly in the street, no doubt as charmed by his beauty as anyone would be, Mr Coffey had never showed the slightest interest in them.

He hung up his cloak upon the stand beside the door, and removed from his satchel a letter that had arrived for him from his mother that day, and as he set the bag neatly aside, Mr Quays’ crisp knock rapped against the door left ajar behind him.

“Mr Quays,” Theophilus said quietly, taking the door’s knob in his hand and opening it properly. “Mrs Quays informed me you wished to assure yourself that I was keeping my room in good order.”

“Yes,” Mr Quays said, hovering on the threshold, his small eyes wide.

Mr and Mrs Quays, as some married couples did, had become mirrors of one another: they each had round heads and round bodies, rosy cheeks and strong arms. Mrs Quays was a woman after Theophilus’ own heart, with a proclivity for settling well into her tasks and becoming very frustrated were she to be interrupted or distracted from them, but this aside she was a friendly woman with an air of quiet warmth; Mr Quays was somewhat more severe in aspect, but never in such a way that had struck Theophilus as unfair or unduly. He liked the Quays, Mr and Mrs, well enough, and although once or twice other lodgers had made comments as to the two of them being dull conversationalists, Theophilus had never found them so – but then, it was fair to say that outside of his discourse with his employer, he rarely sought out conversation at all.

“You would not like to enter, Mr Quays?” Theophilus asked, and Mr Quays looked from Theophilus’ room to Theophilus himself, his lips parting.

“Mr Essex, this place is quite spotless,” he said softly, in a tone of some lacking comprehension.

“I am particular about the state of my surroundings, Mr Quays,” Theophilus said. “I sweep the floors and dust each day, and keep out a keen eye for any pest, for they can do great damage to one’s books.”

“Mrs Quays says she should like for more tenants of your kidney, Mr Essex. I begin to see what it is she means!”

Theophilus did not know what to say to this, but apparently naught needed to be said: Mr Quays walked away, the stairs creaking as he descended them. Frowning in perplexity, Theophilus closed shut the door, and moved to settle at his desk, for the moment ignoring the letter from his mother and setting out the most recent of his sketches.

It _was_ a sketch of Mr Coffey, his arms up and some of his wrists bared to the viewer’s gaze as he tied up his hair, but it would not be true to say Theophilus sketched only him: there were sketches now piled in his drawers of many of the passers-by he often saw on the streets of Birmingham, of horses and dogs and cats, of trees and flowers and small scenes about the town, and sketches of his own family.

As he took up his instrument, beginning to pencil in the brocade to be found in the lines of Mr Coffey’s waistcoat, he thought on Mr Coffey’s quiet sadness, and wondered if it was his lack of spouse that contributed to it.

To be a bachelor at some years past thirty…

His mother would weep, were that to be him. She was insensible already, for him to be at the age he was and lack a wife, but he did not know how best to speak with women, and lacked the pressing desire to learn. Were more women like Mr Coffey in their aspect, made up of sweeping, graceful planes and marbled features, perhaps—

Ah.

Such thoughts led to confusing territory, like as not to give him a headache and unlikely indeed to lead to anything helpful: sensibly, he set them well aside, and applied himself to his etchings.

That night, just as he lay his head upon the pillow, settled beneath a heavy quilt that pressed most oppressively – and thus, comfortingly – atop his shoulders (for Theophilus was a man who slept upon his belly), the skies opened, and he heard the torrent of raindrops fall heavy and fast from the heavens.

Smiling, he let the sound of them lull him into pleasant dreams: Theophilus’ dreams were always pleasant, and always upon the same theme, though the theme was quite divorced from what should ever be considered, and he had decided at the age of twelve that he should profess – as a schoolmate had done – to never dream at all.

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

That evening, as in all Theophilus’ night-time steps into the realms of Morpheus, Theophilus dreamed he was walking the streets of Birmingham in his bare feet and his nightgown, the fabric made wet so as to cling to his body, for rain was falling downward from the sky and also falling up from the cobbles, and even rushing toward him from the left and the right.

Theophilus’ hand was entwined with the hand of another, a faceless figure who kept time with him in these golden, empty streets: when thunder rolled over their heads, their lips crashed together as a hard wave upon a rocky shore, and his companion’s lips – _his! His!_ – were cool and yet so soft against his own.

Theophilus dreamt of other men, when dreamt he did – and dreamt of them in such a way as no man ought dream of another, or even, he rather thought, of a woman.

When Theophilus woke to the morning light, dismal and drenched with still-falling rainwater, he lazed beneath his bedclothes for some minutes on end, imagining what a man’s hands might feel like, their weight upon his waist, or their broad palm cupping his cheek.

When he rose to his feet, these thoughts were cast into the nether, for they were not to be permitted in the land of the waking.

Theophilus dressed for chapel.


	5. Chapter 5

**HENRY**

“Don’t see why it fuckin’ matters,” said Ambrose. The boy was sitting at the table in the servants’ dining hall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and he slouched in his chair, leaning back against chair. He was looking, Henry noted, with not insignificant disapproval at the paper upon which Joseph was sketching, laying out the particulars of a gentleman’s dress, sitting as he was between Matthew Landrake and Isaac Judge, Joseph’s juniors. Mrs Woodbury, Henry took it, had asked Joseph to include him in his tutelage before his departure, and he did not well take to the education.

“Ambrose, this is the last time I will ask you not to curse in this house,” Joseph said darkly, his voice stiff. “Once more and you shall feel the back of my hand.”

“Oh, do let the boy say fuck, Joseph,” Henry said from his place in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, and immediately the young Woodrow was on his feet, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin high; between Matthew and Isaac, who had shot up moments after, he was a good head shorter than each, but his posture was perfect where theirs was shaky. “He knows better than to do it in front of company.”

“Mr Coffey, I am sorry, sir,” Ambrose said.

“Don’t be,” Henry said spiritedly. “You didn’t know I was here.”

“Do you want for the household to fall into disarray upon my departure, Mr Coffey?” Joseph asked, doing his best to be stern, but his lips were threatening a smile.

“Perhaps not,” Henry said. “But I do think Ambrose is right, Joseph – the straightness of my cravat is not something he need concern himself with. I couldn’t care less what my cravat looks like when it has been ironed only once instead of twice.”

“And if he ever leaves your service and work for a gentleman who _does_ care, Mr Coffey?”

Henry looked to Ambrose. “Are you willing to take the risk, lad?”

“Yessir, Mr Coffey,” Ambrose said: he was trying manfully indeed not to burst into laughter, and on his either side, Matthew and Isaac were struggling with the same task.

“Might I borrow you, Joseph?” Henry asked, more softly now, and Joseph inclined his head, stepping out from the dining hall and walking alongside Henry in the narrow corridor, back into the main hall of the house.

“You’re recovered from yesterday’s headache, I see.”

“And the foul wind that accompanied it,” Henry confirmed. “I would invite Essex for dinner this evening, but I know Matthew is going to visit his mother, and Isaac is attending his father’s funeral tomorrow morning, and needs to leave the evening.”

“It’s of no consequence,” Joseph said. “I’ll serve you.”

“You’ll do no such thing – you think I do not know you and Gráinne are to meet this evening?”

Joseph frowned, turning to look him in the face. “Do you really hear every conversation within this house’s walls?”

“Most of them.”

Joseph huffed out a breath somewhere between disapproving and amused, and then became serious, meeting Henry’s gaze. “You mean to tell me you would have me leave Ambrose to serve you?”

“Mrs Woodbury will keep him in line from the wings,” Henry said. “And it’s not as though Mr Essex is a foreign head of state, we hardly need a boy in attendance – I would dispense with such nonsense entirely if I only knew Essex somewhat better.”

Joseph paused, his lips pressing together, and his dark brows raised somewhat as he asked, “How much better are you planning to know him?”

“Please: the man is my secretary.”

“A secretary you’ve been thinking on near constantly, these past weeks. If he _is_ so inclined—”

“He isn’t.” Before Joseph could go on, Henry added, “Please.”

Joseph was quiet, but gave a neat inclination of his head, his expression serious. “Nearly all my years I have known you, Henry. If it is true what they say in some circles, that such an inclination is merely a peculiarity of some men, and not but a choice of intimate act, then if _you_ are…” Joseph, seeing the foul and serious expression on Henry’s face, silenced himself: not in some decades now had Henry brought a man into his rooms for such a purpose, and the topic was not one he and Joseph had ever discussed. It was not one Henry liked to discuss at all. “My apologies, if I exceed my bounds.”

“I would not speak on it, Joseph,” Henry said quietly. “But I appreciate that you pose your query from a place of care for my well-being – I would assure you that I am as well and hale, now, as a butcher’s dog.”

“But quite mad,” Joseph said, “if you would have Ambrose serve you dinner.”

Henry smiled, and patted Joseph’s shoulder. “He’ll be well.”

“And if he pronounces such a word as _fuck_ before your clerk?”

“Before Essex?” Henry asked, and thought on it some. “He may well faint.”

Joseph laughed, and Henry drew away from him to fetch his cloak. He had been of a very foul mood indeed the day previous, had rose from his bed in the afternoon with an aching head and a scowl dragging at his lips: he had spent much of the following evening in a hot bath, and drank several bottles of wine.

Having permitted himself to stew in his misery a while, he now felt quite refreshed.

And he _would_ invite Essex to dinner – and that was all.

* * *

**HENRY**

“Why, Mr Essex,” Henry said, upon seeing the plate Essex laid upon his desk. “Whatever is this?”

“I hope you do not find me impertinent, sir,” Mr Essex said.

“I don’t see how anyone could.”

“But this,” Essex went on, undeterred, “is a honey cake. I thought you might like to taste it.”

Henry looked at the round morsel upon the plate, and then up at Essex, who was studiously avoiding his eye – but then, that was no great shock, as Essex tended to such things even on the best of days. “You are a baker now, Essex?”

“Not ordinarily, sir,” Essex said: to his brown cheeks was a healthy glow, darkening the skin, although it could hardly be called a blush. The beat of his heart, however, was quicker in Henry’s own ears when he strained to hear it – nervous? Embarrassed? “But it is my name day, the 8th of July.”

“Your name day?”

“It is the day for Osios Theofilos, for whom I am named, Mr Coffey,” Essex said softly. “We Greeks celebrate it not unlike a birthday.”

“Who was he?” Henry asked in wonder, having never so much as _heard_ of such a thing, and finding the prospect delightful. “This Osios Theofilos?”

“He was a Macedonian, sir, who went on to teach the word of the Gospels. He was a highly literate man, and taught the word of God where he went: he was pronounced blessed by the church after his death.” Mr Essex was looking down at the cake, and not at Henry himself: as Henry watched, he delicately pressed through the golden top of the cake with a knife, and Henry watched as it bared its white inner flesh, oozing honey. “The cake is very sweet,” Mr Essex said regretfully. “Sweeter than my mother makes it. I think perhaps I measured incorrectly, but I would assure you, sir, it is palatable.”

“And you would share this with me?”

Essex bowed his head further. “I have been imprudent,” he said softly. “I apologise, I merely—”

“No, no, Mr Essex, I am _honoured,_ I assure you – merely that I am surprised that you should think of _me_ , of all people. Please, please, sit, let us eat it. Is there something I ought say?”

“Say, sir?”

“Some sort of pronouncement to wish you a good day?”

“Oh,” Essex said, bringing delicately over a stool: he never dragged a chair, for he hated very much the sound it made, and in witnessing him moving furniture, Henry had only seen him set things down very delicately, that they made no noise at all, if Essex could manage it. “We have a phrase equivalent to wishing someone happy returns, sir. Chrónia pollá.”

“Chronia pólla.”

“No, sir,” Essex said, and for the second time in knowing him, he glimpsed the barest of smiles on Essex’s mouth, a gentle upturn of his lips at their edges. “Chrónia poll _á_. Pollá comes from polís, meaning many. Pólis, with the emphasis on the first syllable, means town.”

“Ah, I see,” Henry murmured. “So it is chrónia pollá.”

“Very good, sir,” Essex said. “Brávo.” His smile had widened by the scarcest inch, and he smiled with his lips parted, that Henry could see his teeth as he did. It was astonishingly lovely, so rare a sight as it was, and Henry took one of the spoons when Essex offered two.

“I have only Latin, and no Greek whatsoever,” Henry confessed. “Pollá is many – chrónia is returns?”

“No, sir,” Essex said. “Literally, it is… years, or ages. As in, may you live many more.”

Such a phrase sat very poor with Henry Coffey.

“Many happy returns, Mr Essex,” he said, forcing the smile to linger on his face, and took a spoonful of honeyed cake.

* * *

**HENRY**

He forgot entirely about asking Essex for dinner until they were nearly concluded with the day’s business, and recollection struck him suddenly as a lightning bolt as he saw Essex readying his cloak to return home.

“Mr Essex,” he said suddenly, making Essex turn his head toward him in apparent surprise, “as it is your name day, I must insist you allow me to invite you for dinner.”

Essex stared at him, his face utterly blank of expression.

“Mr Coffey,” he said demurringly, “I could not possibly—”

“You certainly could possibly,” Henry interrupted him. “And you shall.”

Mr Essex’s eyes widened slightly, and his brows lifted: infinitesimally, he leaned away from Henry.

“Did I say that at a volume unreasonable?” he asked, as he was sometimes forced to after such a reaction.

Mr Essex gave a small nod of his head. “Quite loud, sir,” he said. There was no rebuke in it.

“I do apologise.”

“It’s nothing, sir.”

“But I maintain my invitation. I should be very honoured to receive you, Essex – I was going to invite you before I knew of the felicitous nature of the occasion, but if this already an occasion for you to celebrate, why, my invitation is offered twofold.”

“You are kind, sir,” Essex said. He hesitated, his thin lips pressed together, and then, to Henry’s utter delight, he gave a neat inclination of his head. “Very well, sir. Thank you. If you will excuse me, I will change to a more appropriate suit, and give word to my proprietors that they need not set a place for me at the table.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Henry said, and Essex hesitated a moment, but then nodded his assent, and proffered Henry his hat before reaching for his own. “You must very much miss being away from your family,” he said. “At a time such as this.”

“Yes, sir,” Essex said. “I write to my mother and father with regularity, and my brothers and sister also, but upon days such as these, I do fondly recall days in my youth.”

It occurred to Henry that Essex would not have admitted so freely to such a thing, had Henry posed the question at the beginning of their acquaintance, or at least, he did not think so. He did believe that Essex had somewhat relaxed in his company – he had witnessed now two ( _two!_ ) smiles from Mr Essex’s typically unsmiling mouth, and he now responded to Henry’s queries with the occasional insight into his own life, although his longest responses were ever rooted in fact. Mr Essex answered with more certainty now, seemed more willing to commit to a specific answer – although perhaps some of this was as a result of Henry learning to craft more specific queries. 

“Your family are all in Cambridge?”

“No, sir,” Essex said: taking Henry’s parasol from the rack, he stepped outside of the door to open it, holding it aloft that Henry might step directly beneath it to avoid the angle of the evening sun against the door, and Henry couldn’t help the smile that caught his lips. It plainly meant nothing to Essex that he should do such a thing, merely the sensible thing to do, and Henry murmured a soft thanks as he stepped beneath it, his gloved hand brushing Essex’s bare one as he took the parasol by the handle. “My brothers are sailors – Damainos is a Lieutenant with the East India Company; Socrates is a ship’s surgeon in the merchant navy. And Febrona, my sister, lives now in London – she is an essayist of some repute.”

It was the most in four months that Essex had ever told Henry himself, and Henry, for some minutes, was stunned by information so easily proffered. If Theophilus felt his ensuing silence was in some way remarkable, he did not voice the thought, but Henry doubted he did, because Theophilus often seemed to find mutual silence as companionable – if not more so – than active conversation.

“Your sister is an essayist?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On what subject does she write?”

“Literary criticism, primarily,” Essex said. “She has published two pieces on the value to be found in a submissive wife, willing to bend to her husband’s commands as they are given. She has posited that this is the foundation of a stable and godly household.”

It was not easy to take old of quavers or changes in tone when Essex spoke – he naturally had a very flat affect, and had to be particularly stirred to move from this standard, but Henry did believe he caught some catch or hardness in Mr Essex’s tone. Adjusting his grip upon his parasol, he asked, with a casually curious air, “You disapprove?”

Essex glanced at him: he seemed surprised, but not confused. Within Henry’s chest was a sense of triumph that he should have been correct in his estimations, and after a moment, Essex looked forward once more.

“I have met my sister’s husband, Mr Coffey,” Essex said. “He would be hard-pressed indeed to command a rowboat.”

Henry laughed so loudly that he had to quickly cover his mouth with his hand, lest he draw the attention of passers-by in the street, and although he did not believe it sufficient to label a smile, Mr Essex ducked his head somewhat as his lip twitched.

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

“Oh, hullo, Mr Essex, and Mr Coffey, too,” said Mrs Quays as she answered the door. “Please, do come inside, Mr Coffey, your poor face in this sun.”

Theophilus took Mr Coffey’s parasol from him as he stepped inside, setting it aside a moment.

“I shall be dining with Mr Coffey this evening, Mrs Quays, if you do not mind,” Theophilus said, and Mrs Quays gave a neat nod of her head.

“Very well, Mr Essex, thank you for informing me. Will you be back tonight?”

“I should think so, Mrs Quays, before the hour of ten.”

“Oh, Mr Quays will still be up then,” Mrs Quays said. “Do forgive me, but I’m midway through a pie – let yourselves out as you go.”

“I shall wait here in the hall,” Mr Coffey said.

“Oh, but you must be able to sit,” Theophilus said, and then, against his better judgement, said, “You might sit down in my room, sir – I do have a screen behind which to change.”

“Very well,” Mr Coffey said, although he seemed surprised, and for what reason Theophilus did not know precisely, but there was a curious tension in feeling Mr Coffey at his back as he ascended the stair, and opened forth the door to his bedroom – a tension he had never felt, when permitting Mr Quays to inspect it.

But then, this was quite different to that – Mr Quays knew very little about him, and it seemed to Theophilus that Mr Coffey quite possibly knew more about him than any man alive outside of his own family, and this consideration was at once distressing and comforting, until it came to him seeing a glimpse of Theophilus’ personal possessions, and then slipped soundly into the realm of the former.

“You keep so tidy a space, and so very clean, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said as he crossed the threshold, and Theophilus moved forward the quaint armchair that he kept for himself in the room, the better to read in, although he had merely a stool at his desk. “I should have expected nothing less.”

Suddenly feeling very bare, Theophilus glanced about the room, at the shelves of books, the neatly settled supplies of ink, paper, and pencils. With some haste moving him, he took out from the wardrobe his Sunday suit, a dark blue jacket and trouser to be worn with a striped waistcoat – the latter being something Theophilus had considered somewhat audacious, until he had seen the variety of brocades men wore even in Birmingham.

Stepping behind the screen, he laid his coat aside and began swiftly to unbutton the fastenings of his waistcoat.

“You do like this boarding house, Mr Essex?”

“Yes, sir, very much,” Theophilus said, sitting down upon his stool to unfasten his breeches where they hugged tight at his calf, his shoes already slipped off. “It holds the heat tremendously well on cool nights, and I enjoy the view of the street. I like very much the colour of the bricks in Birmingham – the streets upon which I worked before were astoundingly grey, with little variety in their hue. Here one sees shades of gold, camel, antimony, saffron, mustard, massicot – when it has been raining very hard, and the sun shines through dark clouds, often it seems to me some roof tiles are the colour of orpiment.”

He heard Mr Coffey laugh. “Mr Essex, you _are_ an artist. I had no idea so many colours existed.”

“Broadly, I have spoken only of one colour, Mr Coffey: yellow.”

“What I would give to see the world through your eyes, seeing as many colours as you do,” Mr Coffey said wistfully.

“So long as your dark glasses are aside, sir, I should say we see the name number.”

“We see the same colours, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey relented as Theophilus began to unfasten the waist of his trousers, “but if you might count their shades in the hundreds, whereas I might define a paltry dozen, I do not believe we see the same number at all.”

Theophilus almost found himself clucking his tongue, as he knew his father to do when faced with an equation he struggled to solve, and neatly folded his breeches once drawn off, setting them aside. “You might still distinguish between their shades by sight,” he argued, beginning to draw on his Sunday breeches. “To say that you cannot see something simply because you do not know its name would be absurd. Eve and Adam would not have seen the Tree of Knowledge if the Almighty had not told them its name.”

“I know you are being sardonic with me, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said, “but I do believe there to be some truth in that.”

Theophilus released a short exhalation of sound, a huff of noise too exasperated to be truly called a laugh. Strange, how easy conversation seemed here, away from Mr Coffey’s office: he did not believe he would dare speak so frankly with a writing desk between them instead of a dressing screen, and yet, how strange an idea was that! They were each the same men, after all, merely transplanted to a different location – and in Theophilus’ case, a different state of dress.

The thought affected a blush to rise high in his neck and cheeks, and he began to fasten the band of his waist.

“Oh, Mr Essex,” he heard Mr Coffey say in hushed tones.

“Mr Coffey?”

“You did not tell me you could draw so well.”

Theophilus’ blood, momentarily hot, felt abruptly very cold. Had Mr Coffey opened one of the drawers in his desk, to examine the sketches within? No, no, he would never do such a thing, never, but… Had he put all of them away? No, he had left out a letter to his mother to dry, and—

And an ink drawing he had done of the Soho Manufactory and some workers leaving it, copied from a sketch he had done some weeks ago.

Theophilus heavily exhaled, leaning his forehead against the cool, varnished wood of the screen before returning himself to his task, buttoning in place the flap of his breeches and taking up his waistcoat. “You flatter me, sir,” he said. “It is merely that my mother enjoys very much to receive the occasional illustration when I write to her – she wished that I should become an artist myself.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“You would rather be a secretary?”

“Of course, sir. Wouldn’t you?”

“Than an artist? No, Essex, no…” Theophilus heard the flutter of paper as Coffey picked up the page, and focused on readjusting his cravat, ensuring it settled properly upon his neck. “Such motion you capture – I feel as these factory men will step directly from the page.”

Theophilus thought guiltily of the many more sketches hidden in his desk, of Mr Coffey in motion – of Mr Coffey’s hands, gesticulating wildly; of Mr Coffey pacing as he spoke or argued or dictated or read aloud; of Mr Coffey’s lips as they moved quickly about a tongue-twister or a joke in the newspaper.

“It is all owed to the skill of my tutors, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said firmly, and put his day suit upon its hooks to hang, stepping out from behind the screen.

“This suit is very fine, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said, delicately setting down the page he had taken up – of the sketches – and placing it down again: Theophilus noted that the pages of the actual letter had been left quite untouched beneath their paperweight, and felt a curious affection for Mr Coffey’s sense of propriety. “I have never seen you wear it before.”

“It is far too bold to wear to work, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said, aware of Mr Coffey’s gaze upon him as he slipped on his shoes.

“Is it?” Mr Coffey asked.

“Yes, very.”

“I wear much bolder.”

“You are not a secretary, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus reminded him, and Mr Coffey chuckled, taking up Theophilus’ coat.

“No, Mr Essex,” he agreed. “I am not.”

He held out Theophilus’ coat to help him on with it, and Theophilus felt his tongue catch in his mouth, felt a tremulous uncertainty run the length of his spine as some roiling wave, and with an uncertain hand he slipped his arm into the coat. As his arms exited the sleeves, for the barest of moments, Mr Coffey’s palms brushed the flat plane of Theophilus’ shoulders. It would be wrong to say they lingered there, for it was for but a fractional segment of a segment of a second, and yet in the moment it seemed as though all of the passage of time narrowed down to this very fine point, to Mr Coffey’s cool, heavy hands, his thumbs either side of the base of Theophilus’ neck.

Theophilus pulled his coat to settle properly, smoothing down its front, and then turned back to Mr Coffey, who looked down at his waistcoat. “You might wear this, of a working day,” he said, posing the suggestion mildly. “This stripe is modest enough, isn’t it?”

Theophilus said nothing, and looking at his face, Mr Coffey sighed most exaggeratedly. “I do hope you don’t tell people this formality is an insistence of mine,” he said, “and not your own.”

“I don’t tell people anything, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said, and Mr Coffey chuckled once again. Theophilus had grown accustomed to that chuckle – he had heard a great many variations of it, soft, easy. Some men laughed for the purpose that other people should notice their amusement, making of it a performance, but Mr Coffey laughed very freely, with little compunction as to how it might look to others, and this was a trait that Theophilus found most endearing, if not admirable.

They did not speak at all as they moved from the boarding house and out into the street, and Theophilus wondered how far Mr Coffey’s home was from his offices – he knew that Mr Coffey always walked to the office in the morning and walked home in the evening, although he did own horses and his own modest cab.

“Your brothers are each sailors?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But not you?”

“No, sir.”

“And you did not wish to be an artist?”

“No, sir.”

“You wished to be a secretary?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are not a man inclined to adventure, are you, Essex?”

“I am not a man attracted to peril, sir.”

“The two statements are much of a muchness.”

“Perhaps so,” Theophilus allowed. “And I maintain I am on the right side of each.”

“I suppose I cannot rightly comment,” Mr Coffey said: he had pulled on his gloves again, obfuscating his hands from the view of the sun, and as they walked together, he held the parasol at such an angle that it might shield Theophilus as well as Mr Coffey himself – for Theophilus was some two inches shorter than him – although there was no reason to do so. “I travelled near constantly in my youth, and I liked it very poorly.”

“Within England, sir?”

“Yes,” Mr Coffey said, nodding his head. “From the age of fourteen or so, I never spent longer than a year’s quarter in one place. It was a turbulent time indeed for me, those years moving to and fro, and perhaps it has left me scarred, for I am now very reticent to move about at all.”

“I do not believe I shall ever leave England,” Theophilus said.

“Really? Why ever not?”

“I couldn’t say, sir,” Theophilus said softly. “Merely a notion that I carry.”

“You declined Mr Greenwich’s invitation to join him in his relocation to the Colonies,” Mr Essex pointed out. “Imagine all the art you might have seen in such places as New York.”

“And the revolution, sir?”

“That is what deterred you?”

“Not only, but it did count within my estimations.”

“You are a crushingly sensible man, Mr Essex, balancing your estimations against the promise of the New World.”

“I do not think it is any newer than our own, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said.

“How so?”

Theophilus pretended not to hear him, feigning complete interest in the horses of a passing carriage, and Mr Coffey, to his credit, let the question fall unanswered to the cobbles beneath their feet.


	6. Chapter 6

**HENRY**

It was pleasant indeed, to make idle conversation with Mr Essex, away from the necessity of their work and such distractions. Henry did not know if it was the levity permitted by his name day, the separation from their workplace, or perhaps merely that they had passed over some crest in their relationship, having known one another for so long as they had now, but Mr Essex had been speaking—

Well, not _normally_. Henry did not know there existed such a thing as a normal conversationalist, and if there did, that man was not to be found in Theophilus Essex.

But it seemed that, just as their conversation had naturally evolved in the course of their knowing one another, an additional lubrication had now been smoothed into place.

“Do you care for flowers, Essex?”

“I do, sir, but for their uses more than their beauty.” He seemed to think a moment, considering his explanation, but then, it came: “I confess I have never understood the value in cutting flowers that one might enjoy watching them wither and die upon one’s end table, when one might press them to dry, or crush their petals to use as pigment. Do you?”

“I do,” Henry said, delighted at hearing Essex speak so very freely. “But I share your aversion to cut flowers – I much prefer a living plant, that I might watch it bloom one year and the next, and I have always considered myself lucky in my abilities with plants. There are a great number of fruit trees and flowering plants in the garden, that I might appreciate their blossom. Have you a strong sense of smell?”

“Yes,” Essex said. “But I like the scent of flowers, so long as it is not over-concentrated – a perfume might become so swiftly over-saccharine. I loathe entirely whatever man invented the cologne, that he might choke the lungs of every other who should pass him by.”

Henry did not believe Essex had ever professed to even _disliking_ something, let alone to _loathe_ it, and he was giddy with it. He had opened a fine bottle of port, the wine well-fortified and a favourite of Henry’s own, and he had been delighted indeed to see Essex comment upon its pleasant taste, but some part of him almost wished to find some manner of wine unpalatable, that he might see the wonder in Essex wrinkling his nose and pronouncing it not to his taste.

He wouldn’t, of course – how ungracious a host would do such a thing? And in any case, Essex’s conversation was exhilarating as it stood.

And so their meal went on.

Later, as the door closed behind young Ambrose departing with the serving plates, Henry could a low, _“oh, shit_ —” followed by the clatter of plates hitting the ground in the corridor, and he winced in sympathy, but listened for the sound of Ambrose rising to his feet, and it didn’t sound as though any of the plates had smashed.

“This is his first time serving dinner,” Henry said to Essex, who was looking in the direction of the door, his face distantly showing concern.

He saw on Essex’s face a curious tension as he turned back to look at Henry over the table, his eyes shifting in their sockets as he thought, and then he said, “His shoes were very well-shined,” in the tone of one who had been searching very hard for some positive commentary to make.

“I think one of the other boys did those for him,” Henry murmured, and Essex’s lips twisted momentarily, and he looked down to his plate.

“Nonetheless,” he said.

“You did not grow up with servants.”

“No, sir,” Mr Essex said.

“You must think me a fop.”

“No, sir,” Essex said, and Henry moved to pour him more wine, and Essex politely picked up the glass, sipping at him. “Mr Greenwich had a staff of sixty at his home in Cambridge.”

“At his manse, you mean,” Henry said dryly, and to his surprise, Essex huffed out a sound almost like a laugh.

“Yes,” he agreed, his gaze upon the cloth laid over the table, his expression for a moment pensive. “You do not know Mr Greenwich very well, do you, sir?”

“I met him once,” Henry said, watching as Essex drained his glass, and he moved to pour him some more – it was a pleasant port, well-fortified and plum-sweet, and he was pleased that Mr Essex was so enjoying it. “Perhaps twice. He donates to some other publications.”

“Yes,” Essex said. “Mr Greenwich has long believed that the appearance of generosity is a very important one.”

It was a very frank statement – very _bold_ , and while it carried the sardonic air to which Henry was accustomed to hearing from Mr Essex’s mouth, he had never heard Essex speak so… _imprudently_. He rather liked it.

“He owns several plantations in the American South,” Essex went on, setting down his fork and knife, and delicately wiping his mouth. “You know that he is in favour of slavery.”

It was a statement, and there was no silent question at its end, but Henry nodded his assent nonetheless, looking at Essex’s frown, which was small and tight, but seemed to him to contain a great preponderance of disapproval.

“Yes,” Henry said softly. “I do know that.”

“It is part of why he made his move now,” Essex said crisply, repositioning his fork and knife upon his plate, that they should be set in perfect parallel to one another in the centre of it. His hands settled to his lap for but a moment, and then he raised them again, readjusting the utensils more to his liking, although to Henry, they looked the same each time. “He suspects the revolt might lead to more than quarrelling over taxation, that whether it is successful or not in throwing off the command of his majesty the king, that it might result in unfavourable impact upon his own business. He very much disliked how unpalatable so many English people find slavery, that people would so freely tell him they found it so, that they would never own slaves.” A moment’s bitter contemplation, and then he added, “Though of course, they would still do business with a man who did.

“He once said to me of an evening that he could not comprehend why anyone should choose to pay a man’s wages until his retirement, when you could pay a pittance for the man’s life and work him longer, harder. I do not believe it occurred to him that I, as I stood before him, that he was paying _my_ wages – that he was saying, so unashamedly, he should rather own a man than hire him, that he would do the same of me, if only he could.”

Henry looked at the expression on Essex’s face, at the turn of his thin lip, the _disgust_ there, subtly displayed, but visible indeed. “But you are not African.”

“What does it matter? What is the difference between me and an African – what, the breadth of the Mediterranean? Is that what should make the difference between a man and a man’s possession? A trifling of geography? The precise hue of his skin? I am no paler than a mulatto, and yet my life could neither be bought nor sold.”

Henry knew Theophilus to be a man of mundane blood, and yet in this moment there was a sorcery the likes of which he had never before seen, a sense of magnetising power that drew Henry further in. Theophilus’ face was unchanging, his dark eyes hard, his lip slightly curled, but these were but subtle signs in his face – in another man, whose expressions were full, what mask of rage would Henry be looking upon? He knew not: he knew, though, that Theophilus’ voice was very hard, and although he spoke with a stiff, sharp eloquence and did not raise his voice, the emotion in it was palpable.

“ _Imagine all the art you might have seen in such places as New York_ , you said to me,” Theophilus said darkly. He was tapping, as he sometimes did, a rhythm with his ring finger upon the table – it was a subtle motion, but one that Henry had learned to look for. “Imagine, Mr Coffey, all the colour I might have seen in America, _indeed_ – there are only so many shades one might make out in the colour of other men’s blood, and I have no reason to believe those shades should be any different than those I have witnessed here in England.”

Henry stared at Mr Essex in some awe, that he should speak so passionately, coming from a place of such justifiable anger. Mr Essex had opinions – he had _opinions_ , and they were vibrant, poetically delivered, and _strong!_ And yet, there was a regret in the way he spoke, a distaste that did not seem entirely outward directed, and Henry itched to know, to _understand_ …

“I have come over very hot,” Essex said quietly, reaching up to touch his own cheek. “Do I carry an air febrile?”

There was a glow of sweat on Essex’s brow, and his cheeks were dark, but Henry said, softly, “It should seem to me more likely to be the effects of the wine, my friend, than a sudden fever.”

“Oh,” Mr Essex said, in the air of one reaching an epiphany, his gracefully appointed knuckles lingering on the curve of his own cheek, and then, in horror: “I am drunk.”

“You have never been drunk before?”

“ _No_ ,” Mr Essex said, hiding his face in his hands, and Henry felt very abruptly ashamed, looking to the bottle – he had not thought at all on it as he had poured, but the port _was_ strong, and of course, Essex would not have a tolerance anything like his own. “Oh, Mr Coffey, I am so very sorry, I really—”

“You needn’t apologise, Essex, really – t’was I who poured the wine.”

“Oh,” Mr Essex groaned into his palms, almost wailing.

“Come, let us step into the evening air,” Henry suggested, standing to his feet. “It will ease your blood toward sobriety.”

This was, of course, not true – Essex had drunk a good deal of port in the past few minutes, wine that would not yet have made its way into his blood, but he did not show this on his face as he stood to his feet, moving around the table. Essex was unsteady on his own feet, but not extremely so, but after walking two steps, he froze, squeezing his eyes very tightly shut, his hands clenching into fists, even his shoulders hunching.

“Essex?”

“It feels very much as though the floor is moving beneath me.”

“It is only the drink,” Henry assured him. “Treat it as though you are on the deck of a sail ship.”

“Mr Coffey,” Essex said, not opening his eyes, remaining in his stone-still position, “I am deathly afraid of sail ships.”

“You told me you didn’t know that you were afraid of anything.”

“I lied.”

“You _lied_?”

“Of course I lied,” Essex bit out: he was beginning to tremble, and Henry ached to reach for him, to touch him, to offer some comfort, for he had seen men terrified before, but never rooted so utterly to the spot – and how, if it was the sensation that so affected him, could Henry remove him from it? “A man asks you what you are afraid of, and you tell him?”

“Of course,” Henry said.

“Mr Coffey, you are _demented._ ”

Henry had to hold back his laugh, for he knew it might be misconstrued, but Mr Essex did not pronounce the words with the air of one who truly meant them, and although there was a slight fear, an uncertainty, in the back of his mind, Henry remained close by to him, watching him carefully. With every shiver in Essex’s shoulders, his cold heart panged in sympathy. “You mean to say you were lying when you said you liked my company, also?”

“What?”

“It was a deception when you told me my high spirits were contagious?”

“What? No, of course not, no—”

“Very good, Essex,” Henry said, unconscionably relieved, and gently took him by the elbow. “Then look at my face.”

Essex slowly opened his eyes, first one and then the other, and Henry smiled at him, smiled an open-lipped smile that he knew was meeting his eyes, and he gently squeezed Essex’s elbow. After a few moments of staring at him, Essex seemed to relax, ever so slightly – the shivering did not entirely subside, but Essex did not so strongly resemble any longer a tightly coiled spring.

“Mr Essex,” Henry said softly, “I am very sorry to say that you are going to get drunker before you begin to approach sobriety.”

Mr Essex said something under his breath, in Greek, Henry supposed, but whether it was a curse or a plea to God, he did not know: he did not loosen the gentle hold he had on Essex’s elbow, but rested his other hand upon Essex’s shoulder, steadying him on each side.

“You truly are frightened of sail boats?”

Essex attempted to nod his head, but then let out a soft, pitiful noise, and Henry said, as gently as he could manage, “I would advise you not shake your head about, Essex,” and to his relief, Essex let out a wooden noise that, Henry was fairly certain, was meant to be a laugh.

“Walk with me,” Henry said. “I shall hold you fast between my arms – I am very strong, I could easily carry you.”

“Please, don’t,” Essex said.

“I shan’t, I shan’t, but know that if you were to stumble, which you will not, I would catch you.”

Essex’s right hand moved shakily to loosely grasp at Henry’s forearm, mirroring the hold Henry had himself on Essex’s elbow, and his hand was warm indeed through Henry’s shirt sleeves, just as Essex’s elbow felt livid beneath his own grasp.

“I have you,” Henry murmured, and as two strange dancers, they stepped back toward the corridor.

“I have imbibed alcohol before,” Essex said, with a note of desperation: between Henry’s hands, he quavered. “It was only wine.”

“Fortified,” Henry said. “Port.”

“You must me think some naïf,” Essex whispered.

“In the ways of port, perhaps,” Henry said softly. “In all other matters, Essex, it seems to me that you are far from unworldly.”

Henry Coffey was a cad.

Here was Essex, moved very nearly to tears by his distress, plied as he was with drink that Henry had readily poured him, unthinking, and yet all Henry could think of was the heat of Essex in his arms, to _hold_ him, feeling as he did the beat of Essex’s heart beneath his skin – so warm was he, and Henry could not help but imagine how it might feel to hold him properly in his arms, to feel Essex’s embrace, Essex crushed against his chest.

“Have you always been afeared of sailing?”

“No, sir. I sailed as a boy, within England’s waters.”

“But?”

“A storm struck on one voyage, I could not have been older than nine,” Essex said, his grip tightening on Henry’s forearm as Henry led him down the corridor, nearly to the doors that opened into the gardens. The sun had set, at least, the skies painted an orange that was giving way to a thick, rich violet that would soon darken to black, but this palette was only somewhat visible from the terraced front of the porch.

Just to feel the evening air on his skin, Essex softly sighed, although as they descended the three steps onto the path, he stumbled, and fell forward, though Henry braced him before he could fall entirely against his chest, and ached to have done otherwise.

“I have you,” he said again, and Essex swallowed: his eyes had closed tight again, but Henry did not comment upon the fact as they settled upon a stone-backed bench, and Essex sighed, wrapping his arms about himself. “You are cold?”

“No, sir,” Essex said, and Henry saw the way his fingers curled tightly indeed about the yielding white fabric covering his upper arms, squeezing tightly. A silence passed, but in it, Henry could see Essex cease his shivering, his breathing becoming at once slower, more even.

“A storm struck,” Henry reminded him, and Essex opened his eyes, looking aside at Henry’s face.

“Yes,” he said. “The waves roiled beneath us, the water rushing heavy o’er the boards of the schooner’s deck, and no sooner had one wave drained from the scuppers that another should be lurching over the deck. The ship pitched strongly indeed from side-to-side. I had been at the ship’s top deck, observing the helmsman and learning as I could from him, and the storm had set upon us very suddenly. My brother called for me to go below decks, but I didn’t hear him over the roar of the wind and rain. He ushered me toward him once I was within his sights, for I was small enough then that he worried I should be swept directly over the side, but I stumbled upon the stair, and came a cropper over its bannister when a wave hit.”

Essex reached up, touching the tip of his ring finger to the curving scar at his lower lip, where it had split clean. “I hit upon the deck’s side, lucky indeed to neither have broken my neck nor pitched over into the roiling sea, but I split my lip badly and knocked my shoulder’s blade from its place, and as Socrates pulled me to my feet, I spat the last of my milk teeth onto the deck.”

He sighed heavily. “You must think me so foolish.”

“Not at all,” Henry murmured. “You never sailed after that?”

“No, sir,” Essex said lowly. “Even to stand on the deck of a boat tethered at port I could not bear, to feel its subtle movements under my feet.”

“Ironic, then,” Henry said, “that it is port again that should make you so ill.”

The look in Essex’s eyes was so incredibly foul that Henry could not stifle his soft laugh. “Must I quote Dennis’ admonition to Purcell, sir?[1]”

“Your misery is sufficient for my pleasure in my pun’s delivery, Essex: I shall leave your pockets well alone.”

Though it was weak, Essex smiled.

“The first time I became too deep in my cups,” Henry said softly, wishing to offer some comfort, some manner of reciprocity, “I was scarce past sixteen. Our ale was ordinarily quite diluted, but this was a very fine mead, and I became so doused in drink I could scarcely stand. I thought it a perfect occasion for a midnight promenade, and was discovered when the dawn came soundly asleep in a field of garlic flowers. Such a stench that clung to me, when returned I was to my home.”

Essex actually laughed. It was a soft and easy sound, rich in its roots, and Henry warmed very much to hear it, and to see its evidence wrought in his face.

“The panic has receded, I hope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You might as well enjoy it, then. Ambrose.” Henry gestured for the boy to step down from the doors. “Take a message to the Audrey Boarding House, will you? Tell Mrs Quays that Mr Essex has jarred his ankle, and that I am reticent to send him home upon it, that he shall stay the night as my guest.”

“Yessir,” Ambrose said. “Should I call for a doctor, sir?”

“No, Ambrose, you needn’t do that. Off you go.”

Essex was silent, but as Ambrose slipped away, he whispered, “Thank you. I couldn’t bear to have my hosts think me a drunkard, but you needn’t have lied on my account.”

“I am not by nature a dishonest man,” Henry said softly, “but there are such times that the truth will not do.”

Essex looked ashamed, and Henry looked at him, at the curls about his head, the neatly kept _Q_ of his hair, with the tail of his hair so perfectly set in the centre of his neck’s nape; he looked at Essex’s heavily-lidded, deep-set eyes; his thin, scarred lip. He was handsome, Henry thought – not in the way of some Adonis, but in the way of a man. Henry knew which he preferred.

Perhaps he ought have been wounded, to have thought Essex had been revealing so much to him, this past month, and to discover that at least some of his answers had been false, but no such injury did he feel: there was, instead, a sense of deepened curiosity, and he rather wondered if the sensation of interest would ever fade, with Essex.

“You needn’t tell me lies merely to please me,” Henry said softly. “But you are my secretary, Mr Essex – you are under no legal obligation to share with me such elements of your personal history as you do not wish to. I could not care less if you tell me lies or not.”

“It feels most unkind to deny you, Mr Coffey, when you attend me with such interest, and nor did I…” Essex was quiet, trailing off.

“Go on.”

“I did not wish for you to find me tedious.”

“Oh, Mr Essex,” Henry murmured, putting his chin upon his hand. “There has never been any danger of that.” He looked out into the garden, further, and he said, “I have a fire pit some minute’s walk down the path – would you consent to move there? I worry for you in this chill, as the sun threatens to set entirely.”

Already, the night’s temperature was lower, and Essex hesitated, but then murmured a quiet assent, and they walked together, this time not entwined: Essex walked somewhat unsteadily, with a slight sway and his hands spread to keep himself from tumbling, but he did not lurch unnecessarily, and when he sank upon the cushioned bench, Henry took some wood from the old chest, lighting the fire.

“Where did you get this bench?” Essex asked, drawing his fingers over what had been intended, when Henry had carved them, to mimic the volutes so peculiar to the Ionic column, and instead looked rather more like cracked snail shells wrought in marble. Before he could answer, Essex went on, “The craftsmanship is very poor – I would have been beaten, had I turned in work of this standard at school. It seems as though the artist used but one chisel, too thick for the tightness of the whorls he wished to accomplish.”

“He did at that,” Henry agreed, amused. “I keep it out of sentiment.”

“You are a sentimental man,” said Mr Essex, in a soft voice.

“Yes,” Henry said, and set from his fingers a spark to light the kindling at the base of his fire, but Essex did not appear to note anything untoward in it. Essex was smiling slightly, as though he didn’t realise it, and lolled back in his seat. “Feeling drunker?”

“Heavier,” Essex said. “But then again, lighter.

As the heat flared from the fire, Essex sighed, his eyes falling closed, and Henry remained upon the ground, his hands settled in his lap. “Might I ask you a question perhaps overly intimate?” Henry asked.

“If you like,” Essex said. “I cannot promise I shall answer it.” His eyes opened wideness, and he put his hand over his mouth, regretful of his boldness. “That is to say—”

“I rather enjoy you like this,” Henry said. “To see you so candid, Essex, is to see you unmasked.”

“Masks are not for the benefit of their wearer alone, Mr Coffey,” Essex muttered against the palm of his hand, still pressed against his lip.

“Mr Greenwich,” Henry said.

“Yes?”

“You found him to be an odious man.”

Essex lingered on his own silence, then said, damningly, “I did. I do.”

“And yet you remained in his service five years. Why?”

“Self-interest.”

“Self-interest?”

“That is what I said.”

“You will not elucidate?”

“You wish for me to lie?”

“On this occasion, I should rather you didn’t.”

“Then no, Mr Coffey, I will not elucidate.”

“I am opposed to the practice of slavery,” Henry said. “I have written essays on the subject.”

“I know.”

Henry blinked, surprised, and looked at Essex, sitting back as he was, both hands now hiding the shape of his mouth. “You do? We have never discussed them.”

“No,” Essex said. “But I have read them. Every article, essay, and letter published in your name, I read before I so much as considered applying myself for the position of your secretary.”

“Why, Mr Essex,” Henry said, stunned. “You are a dark horse indeed. Why ever would you do that?”

“I did not wish to again be in the service of such a man as Mr Greenwich,” Essex said lowly. “I applied myself to discovering his most ardent opposite.”

“And found me?”

“Mm.”

“Mr Essex.”

“Yes?”

“I am very glad that you did.”

Essex’s fingers did not move from where they were settled against his lips, but Henry thought, based on the shift of his eyes, that his smile had returned.

**HENRY**

The night was growing cooler, but Ambrose had brought out from the house for them some hot cocoa, as well as their cloaks, and Mr Essex now sat cross-legged upon the bench, his cloak wrapped about himself, his bowl of cocoa cupped in his palms, and Henry felt that he looked quite darling, and wished he had the skill to paint the moment, that he immortalise it forevermore.

They had been talking on and off for some hours now, and Henry, in the pursuit of equality, had drunk very quickly some _magically_ ardent spirits before stepping again into the yard with a honeyed mead for them to share together, and there was a delightfully heavy haze settled over him, rendering him a warm sensation ordinarily impossible with the coolness of his blood.

Perhaps this was what made him so bold.

“Mr Essex?”

“Mr Coffey?”

“Have you read Calmet’s treatise on the supernatural?”

“Calmet? No, I don’t believe so,” Mr Essex said. Henry did not know before tonight that it might be so pleasurable to be addressed without the addition of some _sir_ or _Mr_ at the end or beginning of every sentence – it was not as though Mr Essex were like to use his forename, but there was nonetheless an intimacy in this, and he treasured it.

“He speaks on spirits, revenants, vampires,” Henry said. “Do you know of such things?”

“I do not contend with spirits, Mr Coffey,” Essex said idly, and Henry looked at him. He was, so far as the term might be applied to the likes of Theophilus Essex, quite relaxed, settled in the swaddle of his cloak, his middle fingers tapping that rhythm against his bowl, and his eyes were closed. “When Odysseus walked amongst the dead, and begged wisdom of the departed Elpenor or the prophet Tiresias, it was with blood that he wet their tongues, that they should speak to him although they were dead. This was the price Odysseus paid, that the dead might converse with him, but it always seemed to me that imbibing it was a price paid more by the dead than by him. You recall the passage?”

The talk of blood was startling, although it was Henry himself who had brought up the name of _vampire_ , and Henry, unwilling to interrupt such an unexpected wash of clipped, carefully considered words (for even in the face of port and mead’s dizzying clutches, Mr Essex spoke with a firm and defiant eloquence), said only, “I do.”

“Might I confess something to you, Mr Coffey?”

“Please do.”

“I always felt so very keenly for Odysseus’ mother – he was the son of Laertes, but he was the son of Anticleia, also. I wept for Elpenor and Tiresias alike, when first I read that volume, but when came the plight of Anticleia, I was so stunned by my own feeling that I ceased my tears entirely. It seems to me to be a very cruel thing, that one should die and see one’s own child in need of comfort, of answer, walking the halls of the dead where he should not be, and be unable to speak a word without imbibing the lifeblood of another. An ungodly price, she paid, to be used as soothsayer.” Mr Essex was pensive in his talk, but not grave: it was sympathy for mothers he felt, not hatred for vampires.

This was, at least, what Henry wished to believe.

Henry’s mouth felt very dry, his grip upon the bowl between his own palms a tight one. “That is hardly vampirism,” he said quietly. “A vampire, it is said, is a walking corpse who sups on the blood of the living.”

“Does he kill them?”

“What?”

“The vampire,” Mr Essex said, opening his eyes and looking askance at Henry. “You speak of him as though I ought know of his exploits, but I know not of what they consist. This vampire, whatever spirit he might be… Does he kill them?”

“No,” Henry said, his mouth feeling now so dry as stone, his chest aching. “He drinks only what he needs to survive.”

Essex thought on this a moment, his expression one of ruminant contemplation as his gaze flitted to the crackle of the fire before them. The embers lit the dark colour of his eyes and made it seem as gold as honey. “Would that all men were as vampires, then.”

Struck very suddenly by the urge to embrace the other man, Henry leaned closer, together as they were on the same bench, and Essex turned his head to meet Henry’s eye: their lips were still a distance apart, far from kissing distance, and how Henry ached to close that gap, to crush together their mouths and throw aside their cocoa, to press Essex down beneath him on the bench and draw such sounds from him as Essex would never ordinarily make, to _feel_ him—

“We ought inside,” he said. “We shall catch our deaths in this chill air.”

“Are you frightened of death?”

He asked it as though it were a question equivalent to asking how a man liked his tea, and Henry felt himself lean back an inch or two, taken aback by it. “What manner of question is that, Essex?”

“You always seem to voice questions as they come to your mind, Mr Coffey,” Essex said, and in his lips there was some teasing curve that made Henry feel as though he might crumble quite to pieces. “You would prescribe a different course of action for your secretary?”

Such a precipice buried in so simple a question – of course, Henry was not frightened of death, and had only life to be frightened of, unless someone went to some great effort to murder him.

“No,” Henry answered. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Essex said. “I am a coward by nature.”

“Are you?”

Essex nodded his head: at some point, he had removed the ribbon in his hair, and his curls bobbed with the movement of his head, framing his face. What would those curls feel like under Henry’s hand, were he to fist his fingers in them – would Essex lean his cheek into Henry’s palm, would he…?

“You a coward, me a cad,” Henry murmured. “We are a pair, Essex.”

“Club and diamond, sir,” Essex agreed, and Henry laughed, but Essex said, “Though I should not think you a cad.”

“That is because you do not rightly know me,” Henry said.

“I don’t believe I rightly know anyone, sir, but I would not be opposed to commencing an attempt,” Essex murmured, and his gaze had fallen down to Henry’s mouth. He was really looking at Henry’s mouth, and perhaps it was the drink, but surely, that some manner of invitation: he leaned in closer again.

He could feel Essex’s breath on his lips when the cat rushed in.

The little demon – a calico creature by the name of Astaroth, so named for his abominable breath – had been possessed of the nocturnal energies so often imparted to cats, and leapt over Essex’s lap before using Henry’s chest as a stand from which to launch himself. Their bowls of cocoa were thrown this way and that as Henry shouted and cursed the creature’s name, body, and lineage, and Essex laughed, clapping together his cocoa doused hands as Henry lunged to grab the animal by the scruff of his neck and failed to make his capture.

“Dastardly creature,” Henry muttered as he shook himself of the cocoa. “He is an agent of Lucifer himself, I would have it said. Mrs Woodbury must have tossed him out for the evening, that he might terrorise the population by the light of the moon instead of her. He hasn’t harmed you?”

“Merely a shock, sir,” Essex said, bending clumsily to take up their now empty bowls, but as he came to his feet, he reached out and touched Henry’s chest, and Henry, arrested, went quiet. “But he has torn your blouse.”

“Oh,” Henry murmured, looking down at it, at Essex’s fingers tangled in its ruffles. “It hardly matters. Come, let us inside.”

They were each clumsy, and Henry restrained himself from reaching for Essex, but when Essex reached for _him_ , leaning upon his arm, Henry readily leaned back, thrilled beyond measure.

“You are so very cold,” Essex said. “You ought have said so earlier if the night air so bothered you.”

“It didn’t,” Henry murmured, closing the doors behind them. “Ambrose! You haven’t to bed.”

“No, sir,” Ambrose said. “You haven’t taken your erm, _medicine_ , sir.”

He said it somewhat pointedly, glancing from Essex to Henry – he fasted one night per week, and it would not ruin him to fast two instead, but he realised now, still drunk as he was, that a hunger had settled deep in the pit of his belly, and he had not been cognizant of it until now. Mrs Woodbury appeared at Ambrose’s shoulder, arching her eyebrows, and Henry exhaled.

“Show Mr Essex to his bed, would you, Ambrose?”

“Yessir,” Ambrose said.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Coffey,” Essex said, stumbling as he followed after the young man, and Henry nodded his head, and as he heard the sound of Mr Essex climbing the stairs after Ambrose, his shoes scuffing on the stair, he considered Ambrose helping Essex off with his shoes and his cloak before tossing him into his bed, and rather wished he had insisted upon showing Essex the room himself, then felt a rather deep shame for the thought.

“That is your secretary?” Mrs Woodbury asked, raising her eyebrows.

“He is.”

“And is he ordinarily a lush?”

“That is of my making, I fear,” Henry said. “He has never before tonight tasted port.”

“How was Ambrose?”

“He dropped some serving plates,” Henry said. “But not in Essex’s view, and he has been attentive this evening in other ways.”

“Come then, drink,” Mrs Woodbury said, taking a seat. “That you might go to bed.”

Henry listened for a moment, and heard Essex saying something – he was speaking Greek, although based on the sound of Ambrose’s footsteps in the corridor, he was speaking it to himself. To it, there was a familiar rhythm, and Henry realised, the understanding coming with charm, that Mr Essex was saying his prayers.

Smiling, he gently took Mrs Woodbury’s aged hand, and lowered his mouth to her wrist.

[1] “ _Says D—-s, (starting up) God’s death, Sir, the Man that will make such an execrable Pun as that in my Company, will pick my Pocket, and so left the Room_.” ([x](https://quoteinvestigator.com/2013/10/24/pun-pickpocket/))


	7. Chapter 7

**THEOPHILUS**

Theophilus Essex awoke in a state of some agony.

Awareness came very slowly, filtering through in new waves of pain, and he turned over in the unfamiliar bed and its too soft mattress, its too light sheets. His mouth felt dryer than what dessert in which Christ had walked, and his head felt as though a great many needles were being driven in through the pores from which his hair sprouted.

Groaning, he tried desperately to collect his thoughts, which seemed to have been scattered to the four winds.

He had been drunk.

_Drunk!_

He forced himself to move somewhat, and his every muscle felt stiff and cold beneath the blankets, his stomach roiling with rebellion against its contents, or perhaps merely against Theophilus himself: leaning forward with his forehead resting upon his drawn-up knees, feeling stiff as ice, he rather wondered if this was how corpses should feel upon their internment in the tomb.

What had happened, last night?

He recollected vividly the taste of the port at the table, and the joint of meat that they’d eaten from – he remembered realising how freely, how plainly he was speaking, that he had become upset in thinking about Mr Greenwich’s business, his politics. He remembered that he had overstepped, and he remembered Mr Coffey leading him from the house’s confines and out into the garden, that the night air should refresh him…

After that, his memories of the evening became less concrete in their foundations.

He remembered a point at which he had relaxed, and yet, how ever _could_ he have relaxed, drunk before his employer, no matter that Mr Coffey had become somewhat deep in his cups as well… Flashes of the evening came to him, one after the next; sharing laughter over one thing or another – he had told Mr Coffey about his accident on Socrates’ sailboat when he was a child.

He remembered the last of the evening in the garden, he thought – the cat had rushed in while they’d been sitting together, had thrown their bowls onto the ground and bounced between them, and now, it appeared, this same cat was perched upon the end of Theophilus’ bed.

Through squinting eyes with his hands cupped about his brows, unwilling to allow too much of the torturous morning light to sink its jabbing heat within his skull, the better to render agony with, Theophilus raised his gaze to the animal.

Astaroth sat up quite straight upon his haunches, showing himself in the bright morning light to be a white creature with honey-coloured and tabby patches alike, scattered over his rounded, heavy body. Last night, he had been visible only as a streak of dark shadow rushing through the trees, and Theophilus seemed to recollect Mr Coffey pronouncing him to be a demon of some infamy.

“Hello,” Theophilus said: his own voice surprised him, for the word came out in a dark, crackling croak brought on by last night’s imbibement, and Theophilus coughed against the back of his wrist even as he watched the animal pad forward.

Astaroth’s eyes were yellow and unblinking, fixated upon Theophilus, as though perhaps to make of him a victim to some attack, but no such attack was launched: when Theophilus put out his palm, Astaroth bashed his firm head against it, and purred very loudly. Theophilus had had very little contact with animals in the past – dogs had never seemed to find him interesting, and although cats had sometimes elected to settle quietly in his company, choosing to rest upon the books beside his desk in his rooms at home to sit beside him when he read in some park, none had ever clambered, as Astaroth was now, over his ankles in an attempt to climb the peak of his knees.

A distressing stench came from the animal’s mouth, and Theophilus wrinkled his nose as Astaroth attempted to clamber into his lap despite his position. Carefully straightening out his legs and allowing him to curl up between Theophilus’ knees, the better to keep him away from his chest and face, Theophilus gently scratched the crown of Astaroth’s dappled head, feeling the vibration of his purr through his mighty skull. Theophilus could still smell his breath, but it was not quite so awful with Astaroth facing away from him.

He settled in his place for some time, until the cat begin to sharpen his claws upon the bedding, slowly sinking his claws against the yield of the mattress before retracting them again, and he thought with Astaroth making such subtle threats upon his person, he ought rise.

The night previous – or, to be more accurate in his shame, earlier this very morning – he had managed to strip free his waistcoat alike, though it seemed he had undone the buttons upon one calf and half the buttons on the other, and then abandoned the process to sleep the night in his breeches instead. Groaning softly as he rose from bed, he saw that his waistcoat and jacket had been laid out for him upon the room’s small table, and that folded neatly upon the seat of the chair were a pair of stockings and another shirt that he might change into.

Heat rose in Theophilus’ cheeks, shame and disgust at himself alike, but as Astaroth continued to purr loudly from his place in bed, Theophilus cut across the room and closed shut the door, that he might take the blouse and stockings as offered. Ambrose, young lad that he was, must have laid them out last night, but Theophilus hardly recollected that point of the evening – he only had the scantest of memories of Ambrose leading him up the stair, and that was all.

What _had_ he told Mr Coffey, last night?

His throat was hoarse, not merely from the drink – he had talked a storm last night, and he had told Mr Coffey he was a _liar_. The shame was even worse than the cephalalgy threatening to split his tongue in two, a heavy weight upon his shoulders as he dressed himself in the fresh blouse and stockings, and mourned the creases of his breeches, though his waistcoat was mercifully unrumpled and, thankfully, lacked any cocoa stains last night, although Theophilus was certain the mug had dribbled over him as Astaroth had knocked it free.

Some twenty minutes later, for his hands were slow and his fingers were shaky, found Theophilus sat upon the edge of the bed, moving through the torturous process of fastening the stiffer buttons of his waistcoat and struggling, though not as manfully as he had with those of his breeches.

Just behind him, leaning his hulking body into the lower part of his back, rumbled the beast Astaroth, and though the headache remained and his body continued to sing its quiet pains, both the sound and the tremor seemed to Theophilus to be somewhat soothing, and though the cat was no doubt shedding hair and flea alike upon his clothes, Theophilus remained in place. Once his waistcoat was buttoned to his sternum, the rest of the buttons left undone that he might put on his cravat, he gently laid his hand against Astaroth’s side, and sighed softly at the purr as he felt it.

“You are some timeless machine, Astaroth,” Theophilus said lowly. “What noise you make, and soothing, too.”

The beast purred all the louder.

Theophilus stared into the empty air before him, unable to force himself to move, for his shame had calcified into some great stone, and pinned him thus. Mr Coffey knew him, then, to be a liar, and some great coward besides – and he had spoken so _ill_ of Mr Greenwich, and revealed such things as had been said to Theophilus in confidence.

How could Mr Coffey trust him e’er again, knowing him to be the man who should spread about his master’s flaws as though he were sowing seed, if but a taste of drink were settled on his tongue?

And the _drinking_!

That he should have been drunk – _drunk!_ – before his employer.

Theophilus only wished he might cry, though the state of the world as his body told it to him was so desert-like and parched of anything resembling water that he might well have no such tears to shed.

His further humiliation, made the keener by his new sobriety, and likewise his downfall, were quite inevitable.

Setting his jaw, he rose to his feet, and moved to the door.

The demon Astaroth remained abed, and watched him as he went.

“Might I make to you a recommendation, young Ambrose?” Henry asked: his throat felt as though he had quite dispensed with the drinking of port last night and had elected to drink the bottle in which it had come. Jagged glass seemed as though it were embedded from the back of his teeth all the way down to his toes, and every movement cut.

“Yessir, ‘course,” Ambrose said as he poured more tea. “Though if it’s not to drink, sir, I know that lesson and know it well, and wouldn’t drink as much as you did last night besides.”

“It is good that you know that lesson,” Henry said, pressing his head more solidly against the iced rag he held against his brow, that it might soothe the pounding within. “But more so than the drink, I should advise you to never become such a lich of the night as I – and if vampire you become, do not then imbibe faery wine.”

“That stuff’s lethal, Dad says.”

“Your father is quite right,” Henry mumbled. “It has killed me at least seven times that I know of, and several more besides.”

It seemed to him that he could almost _hear_ Ambrose’s confused frown, but before Ambrose could say anything, he heard upstairs that Essex was addressing the cat, and then heard the sound of his feet upon the carpet.

“Prepare a plate for Mr Essex, if you would,” he said lowly. “He is dressed.”

“You can hear all that, sir?”

Henry, in fact, could indeed hear all that – and he could hear, besides, Mr McElroy singing to his potato plants; Mrs Haverly and Mrs Woodbury conducting with Lucy and Sarah – Mrs Haverly’s daughter and Mrs Woodbury’s junior maid – a lesson in the stewing of fruit; Mr Woodrow’s brush moving against the horse’s sides as he conducted with Joseph an idle conversation; the weathervane had become rusted at its base, and was creaking in the wind; across the road, Mr and Mrs Japes were quarrelling again; some children were splashing back and forth in a puddle with a hoop; and; and; and…

The world was quite full, and with the drink having unmanned him, Henry was even more unable than usual to prevent it from pouring in its entirety into his ears, and the effect was one of unique, cacophonical agony.

“In here, Essex,” he called when he heard Essex’s soles touch against the correct landing, and after a moment’s pause, he heard Essex move forward, his steps quiet, neatly made, upon the wooden floors until he came upon the dining room and stepped within. “Please, do sit. Ambrose is preparing for you a plate.”

“I ought not, sir,” Essex said softly, his voice heavy with regret. “I fear that already I have abused your hospitality overmuch, and that I ought take my leave without further insult, for I—”

“Essex,” Henry interrupted him, without rancour, “I like you very much, but the hour is early and our evening’s delights have poisoned me. I have not the fortitude to argue against your self-flagellation, and feel that perhaps you too lack the endurance with which you would usually apply to the art. Might we meet upon a neutral ground, and perhaps from that ground cold some cuts from last night’s meal, without such an argument?”

When he was met with silence (although the beat of Essex’s heart was loud and astoundingly fast, and Henry could hear the rush of his blood through his veins), Henry opened one eye, and looked upon Essex’s face, at his pinch-pursed lips, at the slight narrow of his eyes, the softened curve of his brows.

“Mr Coffey, I do not know to what you are referring,” Essex said quietly, “but I should say I find myself greatly ashamed of my actions, and would not disgrace you further with my presence.”

“Mr Essex, I do not see how even trying your utmost you might disgrace anybody,” Henry said. “What actions could you be ashamed of?”

“I—”

“As you tell me, pray, do sit.”

“Mr Coffey, I know you treasure levity—”

“I should treasure more your sitting at this table.”

“—and so too I am aware of your willingness to forgive a multitude of sins—”

“To whom are you speaking, Essex, the Papacy?”

“—but in this case I fear I could not bear your friendliness toward me, as I do not deserve it—”

“ _Deserve_ it?”

“— and I feel I ought this morn tender my resignation.”

To this, Henry had nothing to say: struck dumb, he stared at Essex. Essex stood with his hands held before his belly, his expression a mask of some plain melancholy, and abruptly Henry’s idle impatience with Essex’s low morale was cast to the stars, and Henry felt only an icy cold weight in his belly and a sudden nausea roiling in his gut that had naught to do with the drink.

“I ought take my leave of you,” Essex whispered, “I shall submit my formal resignation in writ—”

“Sit down,” Henry said, and he regretted it immediately, for to his voice there was a hard, commanding rumble the likes of which he had not used in some few hundred years, and Essex seemed stunned and frightened by it in turns, his lips parting.

He swallowed, rallying, and said, “Mr Coffey, I—”

“Now.”

With no small amount of hesitation, Essex stepped forward with the most delicate of steps, and settled his hands about the chair across from Henry at the table, lifting it and setting it down once more with nary even a squeak of sound, and Henry’s pounding head was grateful beyond measure.

Essex sank into the sink.

“Essex, if you resign,” Henry said lowly, “I should be at the loss of the best secretary I have ever had, and I have had no small number.”

“I cannot believe that I am such a man, sir,” Essex whispered.

“You are calling me a liar?”

“No,” Essex said. “But you know me to be one.”

“What of it?”

“How might you trust a liar in your service?”

“Would you ever harm me, Essex?”

Essex said, in horror, “No, sir.”

“Kill me in my sleep?”

“ _No_ , sir,” Essex said, his horror bolstered.

“What reason have I, then, not to trust you?”

“My recollection of last night’s events, in their entirety, is hazy.”

“Mine too.”

“How might you trust a man whose very mind is unsound?”

“One drunken night does not a madness make, Essex.”

“And my words upon my previous employer?”

“What of them?”

“What of them?” Essex repeated, indignant, “Mr Coffey,” he said darkly, with even more scarcely tethered fury than he had shown last night, speaking on Mr Greenwich, “you might lack the barest of respect for your office, but _I_ do not.”

“I lack respect for my own office?” Henry asked, raising his eyebrows, and when Ambrose appeared in the doorway behind Essex, he waved the boy subtly away. “Do, Essex, tell me more.”

“Only a madman would retain a clerk he knows would speak ill of a former employer.”

“A former employer who peddles the lives of other men,” Henry replied, surprised by how angry it made him, that Essex should speak so passionately in favour of his own rejection – the very premise was maddening, as though he was witnessing an unbound Prometheus lay himself upon the rock.

“That is besides the point.”

“Is it? Essex, I should rather a secretary with a moral heart in his chest than one who would blindly praise any demagogue alive, if only he had once paid him a wage.”

“How can I reason with you when you _will not_ see reason?”

“You cannot, Essex,” Henry said. “I am a man unreasonable: I have been as such since the day of my birth.”

Essex slammed his hand against the tabletop, and Henry winced at the sudden, painful clap of it, and was only mildly soothed in seeing Essex wince as his twin. Essex was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring, and he was staring across the table at Henry as though the table were a steaming sea.

“If you would not conduct your business with one wall missing from your office,” Essex said, with rage the likes of which Henry had never before heard crackling in his hoarse, port-tortured voice, “you ought not think it right to employ a secretary who should speak ill of an employer merely due to their personal differences.”

Beneath the table, at the sight of Essex seething, a part of Henry’s anatomy hitherto uninvited to the morning’s discourse made its interest known, and he moved subtly to cross his legs.

“Fuck my office,” Henry declared.

Essex stared at him, his mouth agape. “Beg pardon, sir?”

“Dispense with one wall, Essex? I shall dispense with all four. Purchase for us a tarpaulin sheet and we shall conduct our business on Cockerwell Street in the open air.”

“Mr Coffey, you—”

“Very well, Mr Essex, let us dispense with the oilskin roof: we shall edit beneath the open skies, but I must warn you, our papers will become quite wet.”

“ _Hush!”_ Essex snapped, and Henry was rendered quite mute. “Ordinarily, Mr Coffey,” he said, beseechingly, “I am patient indeed with your flights of fancy, but I have the migraine to end all migraines, and as I am no longer your employee, I feel quite free in begging that you retain your fancies to yourself.”

“I shall fling my fancies as I please,” Henry said, “and continue to consider you my employee, for you are so.”

“Mr Coffey—”

“Mr Essex.”

“Mr Coffey, _please_ ,” Essex said. “If you will not consider the sanctity of your own office, pray consider my own shame – how might I conduct yourself as your secretary, knowing you know _me_ to be a liar? How could you think to trust me ever again, if you think I might lie to you – or indeed, that I might walk elsewhere and tell another every element of your personality that I despise?”

“Do you despise many elements of my personality?”

“No, sir, none.”

“Then for what reason I ought I worry?”

Essex looked at him most flatly. “Perhaps I am lying,” he said.

Powerless, Henry groaned a noise that was a laugh in its affect, but contained no mirth whatsoever, and fell back in his seat. “Mr Essex, I informed you last night I could not care a whit if you told me a lie, particularly upon a subject of no great import.”

“But surely, anything I tell you, sir, you will now wonder as to its veracity?”

“I think you greatly overestimate the extent to which I wonder at all, Essex,” Henry said. “I know you to be a man greatly attached to your privacy, the mask which you wear, and last night’s revelry has perhaps in that mask inlaid a crack, but that you are a man and not a collection of ideals, Essex, does not make you unfit to be my clerk.”

Essex shook his head, silently, and when Ambrose appeared in the doorway a second time, Henry this time waved him in.

They ate in silence, and Henry could not move himself from the desperate pain within him, the agonising horror that Essex should abandon him, when the evening previous he had fallen asleep thinking of Essex’s smile, his laughter, and slept the sounder for it.

Was this because he had moved to kiss him, and Essex was ashamed? Frightened? Had Essex decided he hated Henry, after all?

And yet no such hate seemed to radiate from him – he truly seemed aggrieved at the idea that he ought resign, and yet, he _oughtn’t!_

“Mr Essex,” Henry said.

“Mr Coffey,” Essex replied.

“I should be very wounded, to receive your letter of resignation.”

“A better secretary should be a soothing balm, sir.”

“I do not believe such a man exists.”

“Mr Coffey—”

“Why do you think I should expect of you such purity?” Henry asked, leaning across the table as Essex avoided his gaze. “Essex, you confessed yourself a liar – then confessed, I might remind you, that you told such lies in the aim of retaining my interest. You said you did not wish to wound me in your refusing to answer my questions.”

“A lie told is a lie told, sir, the context means naught at all.”

“What rot, Essex. You cannot possibly believe that.”

“In some offices—”

“Some _offices_ – I believe I decide, Essex, what is crucial in conducting one’s office as my secretary.”

“No, sir, for a secretary you are not.”

“I quite cherished last night’s parley on the subject of your flaws, Essex,” Henry said softly, and spoke from the heart, cold though it might have been. “That you should reveal so much of yourself to me was a balm I knew not how I ached for.”

“I have revealed too _much_ ,” Essex breathed out, in a tone of one lamenting, and to Henry’s oversensitive ears, he might well have wailed the words. “Mr Coffey,” Essex said, pleading, “I am as a tortoise unshelled, and I should perish beneath your gaze. I cannot—”

“Is that it?” Henry asked, disbelieving. “Is that all? Your horror is truly that I know too much of you?”

Essex, his lips parted, his eyes showing their pain, shook his head, and yet Henry was certain that in his face he saw a confirmation, an assurance that Henry was right in his guess at Essex’s feeling, and surely, surely—

“I shall tell you a secret,” Henry said: he was drunk, he was mad, and most of all, he was desperate that Essex _must not leave_ him. “If the secret I tell you, Essex, renders me vulnerable enough in your eyes, will you consent to stay?”

“Mr Coffey, this is no matter of humiliation between us, on our twin sides of the scales, I am _debased_. No secret of yours could possibly—”

“Not even if the secret is a matter of life and death?” Henry asked. “Not even if what I should tell you would have the city, nay, the country, turn against me, and call for my demise?”

Essex stared at him, uncomprehending. “Mr Coffey, this is no time for your strange comedy, and I cannot bear—”

Henry opened wide his mouth, and extended his teeth, his jaw clicking loudly as a musket shot in his ears.

Essex, his gaze on Henry’s mouth, blinked.

**THEOPHILUS**

Theophilus felt more hot than he ever had before, his every organ threatening, it seemed, to boil beneath his skin until steam eked out from his pores, his head was spinning as much as it ached, his joints threatened to piece apart like splintering wood, and though he had drunk two cups of tea, his throat felt still as hoarse as if he had been eating sand.

And before his eyes, before his _very eyes_ , Mr Coffey had just unsheathed his two teeth, that they should double abruptly in length, and now as Theophilus regarded him, he saw the way that Mr Coffey’s teeth tips brushed against his plump lower lip. It had not merely been his teeth that had moved – his jaw, too, had shifted, displaying the movement of some part of bone beneath the skin, and Theophilus rose slowly from the table, crossing about it to examine Mr Coffey more closely.

Mr Coffey did not flinch or draw away: his mouth remained slightly open as Theophilus stepped forward, examining the pearlescent white of the exposed bone, so long, at least, as a dog’s teeth, and Theophilus examined their protuberance.

He felt as though he had stepped from the natural course of the day – although it was far from natural, for never had he argued so vehemently over a meal table with any man, least of all a man who purported to employ him, that he was honour-bound to treat with more respect than he had done – and into some dream.

“Would you like for me to do it again?” Mr Coffey asked softly: with his teeth retracted, the scarcest of lisps dragged at his words, for with them so extended, his lips could not properly close.

Dumb, Theophilus nodded his head, though it made the seas in his ears threaten a storm.

As Theophilus watched, uncomprehending, Mr Coffey tipped his head back slightly, and his teeth were retracted as easily as Astaroth’s claws into the pads of his paws, and once more Essex saw the shift of bone either side of his cheek as he so retracted them: a second’s pause, and Coffey extended the teeth anew.

The click was, this time as well, quite audible, and he could see the grind of bone upon bone as Mr Coffey put them out anew, and Theophilus ached for the first time today to take into his hand a pencil, that he might draw Mr Coffey’s mouth anew.

“You call last night,” Mr Coffey said softly, “I spoke to you of the vampire?”

Essex wrenched his gaze from Mr Coffey’s new teeth to Mr Coffey’s eyes, at their green-flecked depths, so close were they, so unavoidable.

“I am no man honourable, Essex,” Mr Coffey said, and clasped hold of Theophilus’ wrist, his fingers as cold and hard as ever they were, and Theophilus stared, his eyes wide as saucers, as Mr Coffey with his other hand unlaced his shirt’s front, shoving aside his cravat and revealing the pale breadth of skin, of _skin_ —

Theophilus gasped sharply as Mr Coffey dragged his palm against his chest, pressed to the front of his rib cage, the skin very cool and dusted over with thin hair, and beneath his touch, unyielding, hard. For a moment, Mr Coffey held fast his palm, and Theophilus frowned, his brow furrowing, for he could feel the beat of Mr Coffey’s heart, but as though through some manner of insulation, and what beat he could feel was supremely slow.

“There beats beneath your palm a heart of stone, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said softly: the drink had made his voice no less musical to the ear, but dragged it down in pitch, and the very sound of it was enough to send a shiver down Theophilus’ spine. “The vampire is called a walking corpse, for his heart is cold and calcified.”

“And yet it beats?”

“It beats.” When Theophilus said nothing, knowing what not to say, Mr Coffey said, “The vampire must drink blood, for he subsists upon the iron therein. The vampiric disease is a particular one, flowing in his blood – it renders the body resistant to near-all ailments, and fortified against injury, and even hardens the flesh and tightens the veins, and surrounds his heart with hard, firm muscle, the better to protect it from all that would do it harm. It keeps itself cool in the same movement – though if his cursed skin should be exposed to such warm light as the sun, his flesh will warm and soften, and in that light he shall scald and steam, for his blood cannot bear the sun’s burning gaze.”

Theophilus felt that he must be dreaming, surely, and yet all he could think of was the marble-cool expanse of Mr Coffey’s chest beneath his palm – so cool was this skin, and yet it was _skin_ , Mr Coffey’s bare skin, beneath his touch, his _touch_! Even in his dreams, Theophilus could never have conceived of a thing.

He took in a shaky, hitched breath.

“The vampire is a creature of the night,” Mr Coffey murmured. “A monster, liable to wrench out the throat of any man, woman, or child who should cross his bath, thirsting as he does for their lifeblood that he might take it and make his own.”

“No,” Theophilus whispered.

“No?”

“No. You said the vampire only drinks that which he needs, that he does no harm.”

“Perhaps I lied.”

“You did not.”

“You’re certain?”

“I am.”

“Why so?”

“You would not lie,” Theophilus whispered. “And you would do no harm.”

“Were you to exit that door,” Mr Coffey said, “and tell to the world my secret, I should be burned at the stake, the stalking monster I am in the night, in the way the world sees me.”

“No,” Theophilus whispered, shaking his head. “No, no, I would never.”

“I have bared myself to you, Essex,” Mr Coffey said. “Have I bared as much as you have to me?”

“More, sir.”

“Good,” Mr Coffey said, and smiled, his lips curving, his teeth so very white, oh, those teeth, Theophilus wished to draw them a thousand times over, sharp points, indenting the plump and yielding flesh of Mr Coffey’s lower lip, so hypnotizingly lovely to look upon, so _impossible_. “Then the scales are tipped in my favour.”

Theophilus withdrew from Mr Coffey’s chest his hand, and Mr Coffey released him, though the cold grip of his hand remained as a ghost upon the back of his hand, and Theophilus reached to gently brush his thumb against the side of the tooth, verifying that beneath his touch it was so hard and real as all the others, and _sharp_.

“You will not resign?” Mr Coffey asked softly. “If you were to resign now, Mr Essex, I should fear you were running to report me to some authority.”

“I would never.”

“Never resign? Good. That is the news I was hoping to hear.”

The laugh was shocked from him, and at the sound of it Mr Coffey beamed as a creature angelic – and toothsome.

“The vampire’s disease is a magical one, you know,” Mr Coffey said softly.

“How is it communicated?”

“Through blood,” Mr Coffey said. “How else? But not through the drinking of it – the victim must drink the blood of another vampire, after he has been drunk from himself. Think of it as two parts of a skeleton key – in the vampire’s saliva is one half, and in his blood the other: so combined, they unlock in their victim an endless, cold immortality.”

“Immortality,” Theophilus repeated, head reeling. “You drank, then, from a vampire’s blood? But when?”

“Long ago,” Mr Coffey said. “And unwillingly.”

“Unwillingly?”

Mr Coffey’s expression twisted, with some morose and obvious pain. “I am sorry, Essex,” he whispered. “I have shared with you one secret this morn – another I could not share so readily. Or at least, not that one.”

Mr Coffey was so very beautiful, in this morning light. So handsome was he Theophilus could scarcely stand it, and these sharp teeth, where they ought have seemed silly, absurd, they were impossibly attractive.

“With these teeth,” he heard himself ask, at a distance, “you bite?”

“To pierce the skin, and with them envenom the blood,” Mr Coffey said. “The venom serves to keep the blood from thickening or scabbing as one drinks, and also to incapacitate the subject of one’s appetites.”

“Incapacitate him?”

“It is not unlike opium in its effects.”

Theophilus’ shame had been quite forgotten – he tried to grasp hold of it and draw it back to himself, but his mind had been filled entirely with the image, the idea, of Mr Coffey’s teeth sinking into willing flesh, his pink tongue lapping at the blood.

Theophilus felt dizzy anew.

“You will not resign?” Mr Coffey begged of him.

“No, sir,” Theophilus whispered.

“Thank God,” was the reply, and Mr Coffey took Theophilus’ hand into both of his own, squeezing it gently. “I had not another gambit in the wings.”

Theophilus laughed, breathlessly, and felt his cheeks burn. “You are mad, Mr Coffey.”

“So you keep telling me, Essex,” Mr Coffey murmured. “But I should rather be mad and keep you than be sane without.”

It was at once too intimate, and Theophilus withdrew his hand. “We must to work,” he said shortly. “The day wastes away before us, sir.”

Mr Coffey sighed, and Theophilus watched, spellbound, as he drew back his teeth – magical, _sorcerous_ , impossible!

“You are a master most hard, Mr Essex,” said he, and rose to his feet.

**HENRY**

“Mr Essex.”

“Mr Coffey?”

“Have you ever been hunting?”

“I…” Essex said, and hesitated, but then said, “Yes, sir.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“No, sir. I confess to enjoy the taste of meat, sir,” Essex said, almost shyly, “but the path that leads to its acquisition is one I do not wish to tread myself.”

“I feel the same way,” Henry said softly, and then said, “to drink from a man’s veins, I might ask his consent, and do him no lasting harm – to sup from an animal’s meat, I must first murder him.”

“Do you like the taste?” Essex asked. He was looking at Henry eagerly for his answer, and Henry was burning under his attention, his curiosity, his gaze ever-lingering, in these past hours, upon Henry’s mouth, which had never wanted so much for a kiss.

“Of blood?”

“Yes.”

“I do. Imagine a meal most satisfying, that to take a mere bite of it settles a delight deep in your bones – it is like that.”

“Oh,” Essex said softly, and then, for Essex was Essex no matter their conversation: “I have finished my examination of Mr Percival’s essay. I think it ought go before Mr Raines’.”

“Very well, Essex,” Henry said, fond despite himself. “Make it so.”


	8. Chapter 8

**HENRY**

It was not to say that dinner became an item of any regularity for Henry and his secretary, but more dinners were, indeed, had. Upon the night of Henry’s own birthday, when came the first of August, he invited Mr Essex to the small soirée he held, primarily made up of other elements with whom the literary industry was concerned, none of whom Henry especially liked, but most of them not offensive enough to bother disliking.

There were exceptions, of course – Mr Essex being one of them, although several times people commented to Henry how very shy his clerk seemed, and each time Henry chuckled and said it was the crowds that overwhelmed him, which was partly true; Joseph came in a splendid green suit with Gráinne upon his arm, the two of them now married, and it had been a birthday gift indeed, to meet her for the first time.

“Happy birthday, Mr Coffey,” Gráinne said brightly: she was a lovely girl, as tall as Henry was and very plump, possessed of round features that were aglow with a bright blush beneath the scattered acne scars her powder could not quite conceal, and as Joseph had promised, she lit up every conversation she entered like a star.

“You are very kind, Mrs Jones,” he said, and immediately, Gráinne laughed as a peal of soft bells, and leaned her cheek against her husband’s arm, and Joseph, in kind, looked at her as though it was her who had created to the world, and not anybody else.

Speaking with Gráinne and Joseph was quite easy, for Joseph already knew Henry, knew his manners and his ways, and enjoyable indeed it was to see Gráinne set upon Essex, and declare him to be a young man most handsome, most sensible, and most in need of a wife, though all but one of these assessments seemed to leave him in a state of muffled indignation.

Not all interactions were quite so easy.

He had never, entirely, perfected the art of befriending other noblemen, even as a young man. It was not to say he was not popular at parties, for certainly, he was, and often could he rouse a round of laughter from his companions, and people had told him he was charming – and more than that, people told one another in any room he was in that they found him so. Henry Coffey was found to be charming, quite handsome, exuberant, amusing, intelligent, delightful – at the beginning of any evening’s revelry, this was all people said to one another.

At the point when the evening began to quieten in its aspect, murmured words to one another became somewhat less pleasant. Never drastically unkind, for Henry would not invite to his own home someone who genuinely found Henry’s company an unpleasant cross to bear, but…

 _“The man has no focus whatever,”_ said Mrs Richards to Mr Richards, sipping from their glasses beside the window. “ _He is a delight, but one struggles at times to keep up.”_

This singular comment, at the very edge of his hearing as Henry attempted to recall whatever it was he had been trying to say, tipped his evening mood into the slow beginning of its decline.

 _“One would think his throat would become hoarse, speaking as much as he does, and at such volume_ ,” said Mr Cain, and though his tone was not without affection, the words stung most awfully. His companions chuckled, and the conversation moved very easily onto other things, but Henry across the room sipped at more of his wine, and wished it was strong enough to have some manner of effect on him.

“ _Will he never sit still? In moving his arms as he speaks, pacing as he does, one might think him the conductor of some travelling orchestra,”_ said David Evans, an elderly gentleman, and Henry saw in this moment that Mr Essex had heard him too, passing by the conversation as it was considered by its participants, for his expression subtly soured, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally, his nose twitching with the tighter pursing of his lips.

It was not until the party was quite over, his guests departed, that Mr Essex – pledged once more to the guest bedroom – sank upon a sofa.

“Mr Coffey,” said he.

“Mr Essex,” was the response: even to Henry’s own voice, there was a desperate fatigue, and although he had already drunk of what blood he required, and eaten, and was tired besides, he felt hungry for something he could not define, describe, articulate.

“Your hearing is very keen, sir.”

“It is.”

“You hear every word spoken within the bounds of this house, and some in the street besides, sir.”

“I do.”

“You like Mr Evans?”

“I do. He draws very amusing sketches for some of the papers, satires, parodies.”

Mr Essex released a short, sharp noise whilst exhaling from his nose, a sound emphatically disapproving.

“This was a birthday party, Mr Essex, not a statement of divine devotion,” Henry said softly. “No one at this party made any inaccurate analyses of my character, nor said anything of me with the intention that it should do myself nor my reputation harm.”

“And yet you are wounded,” Essex said crisply. He added after the delay of a moment, as though he had spoken too boldly, “Sir.”

“Somewhat,” Henry admitted at length. “I hunger for something I know not the name of, some satisfaction that I always ache for, when comes the occasion of my birth, and a satisfaction that I have not yet ever experienced.”

“How many birthdays have you, Mr Coffey?” Essex said quietly: he had risen from the chair chaise, and Henry laid himself out upon it on his side, watching with unspeakable affection as Mr Essex began carefully to set chairs back in their places, tucked beneath the table, and to set all glasses together in perfectly parallel rows of five apiece, sorted by the variety of the glass, its stem, its bowl, its edge. Henry had already sent the serving boys to bed, on the assurance that so long as good had been covered over and all their guests were departed, there was no need to repair the house in the moment.

“I was born five and five hundred years ago,” Henry said. “To the day.”

“That,” Mr Essex said, straightening a tablecloth which seemed to Henry’s eyes to be very straight already, “is a very long time indeed, sir.”

“Do you enjoy your birthday, Essex?”

“I believe so, sir,” Essex said. “But it is of no great consequence – with my name day and my birthday being so close together, and with the former being so much the more celebrated, I fear my birthday is not something I often concern myself with.”

“You dislike parties, of course,” Henry said, and Essex turned to regard him, his thin lips showing a frown.

“No, sir.”

“You do.”

“I do not, sir.”

“You did not enjoy this one. You scarce said a word.”

“I enjoyed it, sir.”

“Mr Essex, you needn’t lie.”

“I am not, sir,” Essex said, somewhat sharply. “I listened to a great many conversations, and very much enjoyed to hear you speak at length with anecdotes and recollections I had not before heard; I spoke for some time with Mr Dufresne upon the subject of birds, and their depiction in art.”

“I well know Mr Dufresne,” Henry said, inwardly thinking that he was a gentleman inclined entirely to his own sex, and feeling a hot flush of some emotion he did not wish to consider at the idea of Essex spending such time in his presence, “and he does not allow his partners to insert a word into a dialogue even edgeways.”

“Mr Coffey,” said Essex, with a flat tone and his eyebrows raised, “it ought occur to you that I prefer to listen than to speak.”

“To me of all people, you mean?”

“I did not say that.”

“Did you mean it?” Henry smiled, tilting his head, to firmly communicate that he intended to tease, not to cut, and he saw the beginnings of the slight smile upon Essex’s face before Essex turned his back on Henry again. “Did he say anything else to you, Edouard Dufresne?”

“He said that were I ever to go to London, I ought visit him,” Essex said idly.

“You ought not,” Henry said, before he might consider the wisdom of so saying, and Essex glanced back at him.

“I oughtn’t, sir?”

“I should not forbid it, of course: your life is your own.”

“Yes, sir, but I should listen to your advice.”

“I have no advice.”

“Except to advise I not visit upon a gentleman at your party?”

“I have made my statement: your decision as to how to act upon it is your own.”

“Sir, without meaning to argue with you upon this most auspicious day of your birth,” Essex said, the sarcasm dripping from his every word, and Henry felt quite giddy with it, smiling although hot embarrassment lingered within him, “you have made scarce any statement at all.”

“Mr Dufresne is a gentleman of some repute, and a very capable artist besides; he is erudite and well-spoken, and very kind to his friends, and I have heard it said that he donates a good part of his earnings to the orphanage near which he grew up.”

“I begin to see why he might make such abominable company,” Essex said, tone flat.

“And Mr Dufresne,” Henry went on, “favours entirely the intimate company of his own sex.”

In Essex’s shoulders, Henry noted a sudden stiffness, and watched as Essex stood up straight from the table, his fingers lingering against the cloth, and then he turned to examine Henry. In his eyes was a look of some consternation, his expression frozen, and Henry felt run down his spine a sort of cool, bristling uncertainty.

“Intimate company,” Essex repeated.

“Yes.”

Essex was utterly silent, and his hands, resting before his belly with his ring finger twitching in its place, and for some moments they lingered in the silence. Henry wished he might have some window into the working of the other man’s head, to know whatever it was he was thinking, because it seemed to him that Essex must be thinking a great deal, but Henry was ignorant to the particulars, and ached to know them.

He could not ask, of course: to do that would be too far, he thought.

“You did not know?” he asked, finally.

“No, sir,” Essex whispered. Was it disgust that showed in his face? Horror? Henry could scarcely know.

“Mr Dufresne is not unkind,” Henry said, his tongue feeling quite dry, the need to recant making itself known, lest Essex voice some loathing for men of such inclinations, and then where would he be? “Never would he foist himself upon an unconsenting partner. I merely thought perhaps you were not aware as to his—”

“I was not,” Essex said very quietly. “But Mr Dufresne is a gentleman of some good repute, is he not?”

“I would not wager that he should be pilloried tomorrow,” Henry said. “But no man of such inclinations is safe from the invasion of the king’s men into his private concerns, if it would please the court of general opinion.”

Essex seemed caught by this, his brows furrowing somewhat, and he stepped away from the table he had been tidying, examining Henry most critically, as though attempting to puzzle him out.

“It is the opinion of this kingdom’s courts, Mr Coffey,” Essex said softly, “that such acts are an unnatural, and committed against the will of God and man alike.”

“It wasn’t when I was born,” Henry replied.

“What manner of argument is that?” Essex asked.

“There was no new gospel of 1533 to which I have been introduced, that should set apart such an intimate act apart from any other sin of hedonism – and certainly, if God had laid out new instructions for his subjects, I do not believe he would have done so through the mouth-piece of the then Earl of Essex, so odious and despicable a creature as he was. If it is consenting, and conducted in the privacy of one’s walls and not in the street, I see no reason why any act of intimacy should be the concern of the king or his courts.”

Essex was quiet, and as Henry watched him, he turned back to his straightening of that which was upon the table, collecting empty bottles and putting them to one side.

Perhaps a minute of this passed before Henry asked, “Do you disagree with my assessment, Essex?”

Such an answer came as Henry could only expect: “I could not say, sir.”

He let the matter pass.

**THEOPHILUS**

There was to Mr Coffey’s revelation no small amount of mystery, and as went forth their day-to-day activity, Mr Coffey would always answer Theophilus’ questions – upon the rare occasion that Theophilus gave them voice – readily and with ease.

“Are you very strong, Mr Coffey?” he asked one morning. “Stronger than the average man?”

“I believe so, somewhat,” Mr Coffey had said, although the query had given him pause, and he thought about it quite intently. “Although I do not believe I am any stronger than say, a sailor or a labourer of particular fortitude. Perhaps if I applied myself in any way to acts of strength I might be able to lift horses or carts or what have you, but it’s never been an idea to which I’ve given priority.”

“A bear can bite clean through bone,” Theophilus had said. “Can you do that, sir?”

“… I could not say, Mr Essex, I have never made such an attempt.”

Theophilus laughed, softly, and Mr Coffey, delighted, beamed back at him, although Theophilus thought perhaps the humour confused him – it was difficult for him to judge.

There was a newly candid nature to the way in which they spoke to one another, and though it would be wrong indeed to claim that Theophilus now spoke quite freely, telling Mr Coffey all that came to his mind, there was a sense of new liberty that governed their conversations – and, indeed, a new liberty when came Theophilus’ secrets to mind.

The first of these, he supposed, were the sketches he kept of Mr Coffey, a great many he had now neatly filed in a box beneath his bed, for he could not bear the risk of disposing them, and felt he could not see them burn. He had drawn a great many new portraits of Mr Coffey with his teeth extended, of the way they brushed the edges of his lips when he spoke.

Most secret of all these, he had drawn in the dead of night on the evening of his own birthday, as a storm had raged outside and the rain had pounded hard upon the windows, a sketch of Mr Coffey wrenching back the head of some faceless molly, that he might drive his teeth into the fellow’s pale neck.

In this sketch, etched in graphite and the sulphuric stain of sin, Mr Coffey’s green-flecked eyes glowed with a predatory light, holding the young man pinned between his knees with his hand fisted in his hair, as though to play him like a cello – just as Theophilus had found himself unable to bring to life the fellow’s expression, whether to show agony or ecstasy, he had been quite unable to draw Mr Coffey’s second hand, for he did not know where it would settle.

Here, on the molly’s thigh where he had spread them quite apart, his breeches unbuttoned and his belt strewn upon the floor? Here, curved about his knee, wrenching his legs wider still apart? Here, perhaps, where his crumpled blouse – for his waistcoat, too, was missing – ruched and displayed scant inches of white skin, that his fingers might slide e’er lower?

Even unfinished, the sketch was unspeakably sordid.

He had hoped putting it to paper might absolve him of the image, playing out in motion within his head, and yet it only served to make it more vivid: he had slipped for some hours into the most torrid of midnight fantasies, and even after some small satisfaction had allowed him sleep, they had followed him into his dreams.

The dreams were quite beyond obscene, and did not bear dwelling on, although Theophilus often struggled to do anything else, when the candles were doused and he had laid down for the night.

As for Bartholomew Dufresne—

Theophilus and he had been exchanging letters.

There was no law against that.

Weeks became months so very swiftly in the office of Henry Coffey, and summer gave way to a gloomy autumn. Leaves spread thick over the cobbles like a slick, slippery carpet, and on one unfortunate Thursday, Theophilus really did jar his ankle.

It was a Sunday morning, and as he moved into the churchyard for chapel, the sun a warm balm on his skin, he lost his footing upon the stone steps where leaves had fallen into the gaps in the brick, and his feet went out from under him.

“God’s teeth,” he heard Mrs Painter say as she rushed forward, and sitting up, dazed, he touched his fingers to the back of his aching head, and they came away bloody.

“Oh,” Theophilus whispered, feeling abruptly very dizzy indeed, and fainted.

**HENRY**

“Thank you, Mrs Quays,” Henry said softly, and set the pot of tea upon the desk. Mr Essex was still asleep – he had fainted, in the churchyard, apparently at the sight of his own blood, and Ambrose (who had been dragged to the service by Mrs Woodbury) had run all the way home to fetch Henry, that he might call for a doctor.

The wound to the back of Essex’s head had been but a trivial thing, easily cleaned and healed with some scant sorcery of Henry’s own making, but his ankle had been quite badly sprained, and he’d been in some pain as the doctor had examined it, ensuring that no bones were broken.

Mr Essex would have to rest the ankle for some weeks, and _quite_ the complaint he had raised about it, too, before the laudanum had begun its work.

There were a handful of sketches laid out upon Essex’s writing desk, and a letter, too, from Bartholomew Dufresne. Henry itched to pick up the latter, to read whatever it was Dufresne had written, and in order to better ensure he could not give into such a temptation, he gently placed a book on top of it.

The sketches feel like quite such an invasion of Mr Essex’s privacy, for Henry knew him to be a focused artist, and there were a few pages – one was addressed to Mr Dufresne, and _that_ page, he allowed himself to examine, reading the neatly appointed note at its top corner.

_Dear Bartholomew,_

_Here below you shall see two portraits of the demon Astaroth, whose devilish kingdom spreads some miles about Birmingham’s radius, and who is the scourge of all birds alive_.

There were two sketches of Astaroth, one of him face-on, staring out from the paper, and the other was him sprawled out upon his back, the position rendering him even more round to the eye than usual. A few smaller drawings depicted the shapes of Astaroth’s paws, the particular curve of his ears, and a detail of one side of his whiskers, where several of them had been burnt off when, as a kitten, he had wandered past a few candles, and had run away when three people – Henry included – had chased him to put it out. They’d lost two pairs of curtains and a Turkish rug to that particular incident, and the animal had been unrepentant, as was his wont.

Another of the sketches was of Henry himself, of him reading dramatically from a book clutched in one hand, his other raised aloft: Henry’s lips upon the page were smiling, his eyes alight, and the caption read: **WHAT HAVE WE HERE? A MAN OR A FISH?**

He had read from that particular monologue on the evening of his birthday, he recalled – how must it be, to be Theophilus Essex, and recall from memory so minute a detail, that he might lay it down in pencil or ink? Even the suit of that evening, Essex had captured, carefully detailing the shape of the diamonds of which its pattern was made.

“S’a col’r o’rust,” Essex mumbled, squinting at him from his place upon the bed, beneath his blankets, and Henry moved forward, catching hold of him before he could swing his legs from place.

“Ah, remain in place, Essex,” he said, “you must keep your ankle there, lest the doctor insist it be boxed.”

“ _Rust_ ,” Essex repeated.

“The laudanum?”

“Mmm,” Essex agreed, and groaned, wiping hard over his eyes. “S’worse’n the pain.”

“Is it?”

“N’more’f it.”

“I’ll tell the doctor so,” Henry said.

“Ssssir.”

“Yes, Mr Essex?”

“Y’r’and.”

“My— My hand?”

“Mm.”

Uncertain, Henry put out his hand, and with a clumsy grasp Essex took tight hold of his wrist and dragged Henry forward, laying his cold palm upon the – Henry now discovered – sticky heat of his brow, and sighed softly.

“C’rpse-cold,” he mumbled, with an air of satisfaction.

“You’re quite welcome,” Henry replied dryly, and Essex giggled, but didn’t look quite with this set of reality, drugged as he was to his gills. “Are you alright, Essex?”

“I fainted,” Essex said, making more of an effort, now, to move his jaw, although it seemed to be something with which he was struggling, and he kept his eyes closed and Henry’s hand pinned to his brow. “At the blood.”

“On your head?”

“Mm.”

“I healed that cut,” Henry said. “It shan’t even scar.”

Essex sighed. “Sssorsscery,” he slurred, although with an air more of quiet satisfaction than condemnation, and as Henry lingered beside him, he watched as Essex drifted once more into something like sleep, though what somnific effect came from laudanum, precisely, Henry did not know, for he had never experienced it before his turning, and it had scarce any effect on him, now.

As Essex’s hands went limp, falling away from Henry’s hand, he might well have retracted it, but instead he gently stroked through Essex’s thick curls, feeling their volume between his fingers, and Essex sighed again. The curls were soft and thick and tremendously lovely, and Henry only wished he might be permitted such liberty ordinarily, that he might, that he _might_ …

Later, when Henry awoke from where he had fallen into a doze, settled in the chair beside Essex’s bed, Essex lay beneath only his pillowed quilt, and the blanket that had been overtop of it had been thrown haphazardly over Henry’s body, as though Theophilus had struggled to put it over him without rising from his bed.

Henry smiled at that.

How could one not?

When Ambrose had run to get him, his blood had run even colder in his veins, cool enough to congeal in them, for the idea of losing Essex, of his dying in some accident, had struck him as keenly as any blade might have – more keenly, in fact, because most men would have a very hard time forcing even the sharpest weapon through the hard surface of his flesh.

Now, with Essex’s blanket over his knees, he watched him sleeping, at the straight form he adopted even in unconsciousness, lying flat upon his back with his hands folded over his belly, the only element out of his place his ankle, which Ambrose had forced a cushion beneath to keep him from moving it about quite so much. In sleep, Essex’s face slackened, and yet still he frowned, albeit loosely, his lips settling naturally into a slight downturn at their edges.

Henry closed his own eyes, tipping his head back in the chair, and he listened to the slow, easy rhythm of Essex’s heart, one he so well knew at this juncture he could likely pick it out of a crowd, and listened, too, to Essex’s even breathing.

“Mr Coffey,” he said lowly.

“Mm?”

“I would shut the shutters,” Essex said – there was a slightly exhausted slur to his words, but no longer the numb mouth the laudanum had given him earlier, and Henry glanced at the window over Essex’s desk. “Unless you should rather burn.”

“Oh,” Henry said, and rose sleepily to his feet. The sounds of the market came in through the window as he leaned out to pull the shutters closed and latch them in place, shutting out the rising light that had been brightening as it entered the bedroom, but it meant little to Henry: in the scant light, he could still see Essex perfectly, his eyes now open – though lidded with sleep – and fixed upon him.

“You needn’t have lingered with me,” Essex said softly.

“I shall host you in my own home from later today, if you have no objections.”

“I have at least two.”

“I shall bring about the coach, so you needn’t put weight upon your ankle, and I would not consent to leave you to care for yourself when you ought not be walking. Nor, indeed, I imagine, would you be content requesting continuous assistance from Mr and Mrs Quays.”

“Give me a moment.”

“A moment?”

“I’m thinking of another objection.”

Henry laughed, and stepped back to the armchair, sinking down into it. “Mrs Quays agreed you might lock your bedroom as ordinarily you might, in the weeks you would stay with me.”

In the darkness, he could see Essex’s face, the slight press of his lips.

“If it’s any enticement, Mr Essex, I would be more than content to make use of the office in my home for the duration of your recovery, that you need not be prevented entirely from your work.”

He saw Essex’s lips turn ever so slightly up at their edges: the scar shone in the dim light.

“You craft an unimpeachable argument, Mr Coffey.”

“I have had some years of practice, Mr Essex. You are certain you want for no more of the laudanum?”

“Please, no,” Essex murmured. “My dreams are uneasy ones, when laudanum is added.”

Henry watched Essex for a long moment before he said, “You told me, some time ago, that you did not dream at all.”

“You are very kind to me, Mr Coffey,” Essex said sleepily, his head lolling back upon the pillow. “I don’t feel that I deserve it.”

“You deserve my kindness more than I deserve yours,” Henry murmured. “Of that, Essex, I’m quite certain.”

“Because you are a cad?”

“That is so.”

Essex made a low noise of disapproval, but he was already drifting again, and Henry watched him as he slipped off – and to what places did he sail to, when he entered that morphean river, so secret as to be pushed away as not existing at all?

Henry didn’t know.

Essex didn’t properly wake until it was an hour or so before noon, and only then did Henry send for the coach.


	9. Chapter 9

**THEOPHILUS**

In a widely-looping, beautifully appointed script, slightly messy but legible, with some scattered drips of ink about each line:

_12 th October 1764_

_Friday_

_Dear Theophilus,_

_I am sorry indeed to hear about your ankle, and to hear, too, that you should be confined to your bed for so many of your waking hours. It is a chore indeed that a man should be made to lie in place so, with only his books and letters to entertain him, so I shall go to as great an effort as I can, my friend, to make of this letter exciting reading. We might thank our lucky stars, I suppose, that it is only that your ankle has been badly strained, and that no bone has been broken as your doctor can ascertain – I should very much hate to see you suffer such an injury, Theophilus, for it is necessitated that the leg be wrapped very tightly indeed, and pinned in a box, that the bone should knit itself together anew, not quite so easily as a scab forms, I fear._

_When I had but one year and score beneath my belt – and it seems very long ago, though it was scarce six years behind me – I was riding with some good friends and fell very badly from my horse when he was spooked by a passing badger (and really, it was rude indeed for that weasel to be wandering about at such an hour, for it was some hours past dawn, and in any case, I think that badgers ought learn the rules of our thoroughfares if they would put them to use, and particularly learn who it is that has the right of way!), and I fell quite hard indeed upon my right side, but at an ankle, into a ditch._

_I broke one of the long bones in my lower leg, the tibia or fibula or even tibula or fibia, and what chaos then ensued, for my friends failed indeed to carry me walking as most men might between their shoulders, for this occasion was with Maurice Alderman, who has no balance whatsoever and little strength besides, and then with the Rutterford twins who are both quite handsome owing to the most lovely bone structure you ever did see, but I feel that such effort went into crafting the outside of their heads that the inside was most neglected, and they could not synchronise their steps that I should walk between them without jarring my broken bone on every movement. So, thus came the decision that they should make a stretcher out of all our coats – Theophilus, I must advise you never attempt such a thing if you have not been trained in the area, for they must have tipped me out of that misshapen hammock thrice over before one of the groundsmen passed by and demanded what in God’s name they were doing, and ordered Maurice to run off for the doctor._

_Anyway, when I was set upon the couch and the doctor was summoned, he had to sort of push the bone back into set one another, that the broken elements should be brought back into alignment, and it was pain the likes of which I have never seen – he placed my belt in my mouth that I should not scream or grind my teeth, and I very nearly bit clean through! Such an awful crunch of bone as you had never heard, my dear, and it was so very loud between my screaming and the osteal crumble that Maurice fainted dead away, and the doctor had to attend to him with smelling salts once he was satisfied that my leg was in one fragile piece again._

_Binding it very tightly, he constructed about it the box I heretofore mentioned, and I had to lay abed for some few months, and had to wear a sort of splint that was quite unattractive indeed as it continued to heal for some while after. I do not ride any longer, although I like horses a good deal, and so I often satisfy myself by settling in the stables and sketching them and spending time with them for any longer period._

_Please do not think I was as some withered flower for the period of my recovery, though, for I did rather a lot – I wrote a great deal, all rot and nonsense, I assure you, and once I was permitted leave of my bed I would often sit upon the grass at the very edges of the Rutterfords’ lawn, slightly hidden in a copse of trees, and there I would sit upon a picnic blanket with my back against this great yew tree with all my papers and my pencils laid out, and that was when I really first began to fall quite in love with the wonder of the ornithological world._

_Sketching the birds and mice and shrews and what-not that I saw about me in the course of a day, and then I would rush back – that is to say, limp very slowly, with all my weight rested upon a crutch – to the library and compare my sketches to the books there. Many an hour I spent, Theophilus, with my nose buried quite entirely within the pages of Mr Linnaeus’_ Systema Naturae _, or admiring Mr Albin’s lovingly attended plates. Do you have much of a head for watercolours? I know you said you primarily work with pencils, and that you have had tutelage in the art of marble sculpting and in the use of oils, but I quite adore watercolours for their pigments – I have been working very recently on a series of plates depicting common starlings going about their business._

_It must seem very dull, that I should spend such time on so common an example of the passerines, but I have a great affection indeed for the starling – at a glance, he seems to be naught but a streak of greased black upon the air, but if one is able to examine one in close detail, one might see the brightness of his yellow beak, the glossy iridescence of his feathers with their bright white spots and their shades of plum-purple plumage, and such precise little feet! The starling is a creature well-known for its variety of vocalisations, you know, and such a noise as those little beasts make – you have not felt true awe at the wonder and grace of all God’s creatures, my dear friend, until you have laid upon your back in the grass and watched a starling make one noise, think for a moment, and then make another entirely – and know that he is mimicking another bird’s song!_

_And that is to say nothing of their flocks, for the starling moves in the most lovely of murmurations, and sometimes one might witness thousands of birds in tow: painting the sky in streaks of shifting, shining black, they do a dance as no ballet could ever hope to match for its splendour or poetry, and I only wish one might create some moving image, that its magnificence should be captured for the ages, and enjoyed again and again at will. They shall form so tight a formation that one should see only a great black blot upon the turning skies above, and then, oh, how that shape should change again, moving fluidly through its axes and curving about one another, oh, it is splendid, splendid indeed._

_I fear I have no tremendously interesting news to impart upon you – I write this letter from the window seat overlooking the river, enjoying the last rays of the evening sun as it leaves us for the night. I shall be going to a soirée with some good friends, and on Friday shall be attending the opera, but that is all I have to say to you of my week to come – these weeks past, I have been buried near entirely in my work._

_Ah, George Callum is at the door, and I must depart, for he knows the way and I do not, so I shall finish this letter here, that it might come to you all the sooner – I do hope you are well, Theophilus, and if there is aught I might do for you as you are laid in your bed, say the word. I shall send mummers to the house of your employer, even, if it would please you!_

_With my affection and my good wishes,_

_Bartholomew Dufresne_

Alongside the pages of the letter itself were several more pages – some of them, Theophilus discovered as he paged through them, were idle sketches of starlings, and merrily did Bartholomew leave comments upon them, pointing out where he had botched his colour palette here, or there where he had for reasons unbeknownst even to him drew the starling’s wing as though it should sprout from its neck instead of its shoulder.

Theophilus laughed softly as he read the annotations upon his own work – it was far beyond any skill he had himself in the drawing of animals in motion, for their anatomy was a struggle to him in a way that that of man never was, but Bartholomew’s plain, self-deprecating delight in his own errors was a balm to the soul.

Upon the latter page was a portrait of Theophilus himself, and upon unfolding it he felt quite embarrassed, a very hot flush burning in his cheeks, an uncertain sensation twisting in his belly. He had never been inclined to self-portraiture, but for some practice sketches of his own hands or feet, and in this rendering he seemed quite handsome in a way he never did in a mirror: the Theophilus upon the page seemed focused, serious, his head tilted to the side to show the curve of his year as he listened to some partner not depicted speak, and Bartholomew had illuminated his face in such a way as to emphasise the shape of his jaw and cheek, and the shine of the scar through his lip.

He glanced at the caption: **THE SECRETARY IN CONTEMPLATION**.

Folding the page, he set it upon the desk at the side of his bed, and touched his own cheek, feeling the heat of the flushed skin beneath his fingers, and wishing in some mortification he knew not how to articulate that he might burrow beneath his covers and spend quite some time there.

He always sent Bartholomew sketches of his own, of course. They brought him a good deal of pleasure, Bartholomew had said, although he wished Theophilus should devote himself to the study of ornithology or some other natural history, that Bartholomew might better admire the results.

Later, in a perfectly appointed, looping script, with letters so precisely measured one might have thought them printed my plate:

_20 th October 1764_

_Saturday_

_Dear Bartholomew,_

_Thank you very kindly for your warm wishes and the letter, and thank you also for these most humorous off-cuts from your platework – in some imagined word where sprouts from a bird’s head his wing, they might rather well suit. My ankle does not hurt me too badly, and I have refused laudanum for it makes me feel very ill, though I am sorry indeed to hear of your leg some years past – does it ail you still? I have often heard from my brothers, who are each sailors, that a broken bone can ache for some time after it has healed, particularly with the change of one wind or other, when the air becomes heavier or lighter._

_I have scarcely approached the use of watercolours, although I believe I should like to – my tutor wished very much that I should become a more consummate artist in my use of oils, and that I apply myself more entirely to the art, but I was too severe in my aspect, and whilst I very much enjoy painting, I find comfort in the solidity of words._

_I hope you are well, and that your party and the opera alike have brought you joy. I have been primarily pursuing some reading, owing to the extent and variety of Mr Coffey’s library, although from Monday Mr Coffey – who has thus far resolutely refused I resume my ordinary duties as clerk, even using a tray in bed upon which to write – has said I might begin to work upon my ordinary duties again._

_I know very little about the opera, for I have little ear for music – have you any favourites, Bartholomew?_

_Yours,_

_Theophilus Essex_

**HENRY**

Henry had seen the letters Dufresne sent Essex.

Typically, Essex wrote short, curt letters of one page or, if he was feeling particularly loquacious, perhaps a page and one half. Dufresne, in contrast, sent short books to Essex – the shortest of his letters would be three or four pages; ordinarily, they were between the numbers of nine and twelve.

This was to be expected – Henry knew Dufresne to be a tremendous bore, a man who never spoke in sentences if paragraphs might do, and while broadly inoffensive, for his politics were sound when he voiced them, and primarily he did not, Henry often found himself irritable in Dufresne’s presence for any extended period of time, for Dufresne’s voice – with his mild, charming French accent and his sweet tones and his brightly voluble nature – _grated_.

He had been pleased, in some subtle way, in seeing the disparity between Dufresne’s correspondence and Essex’s reply.

Some part of him, however petty, however territorial, was pleased indeed that Dufresne should talk as such length, and Essex should respond with his particular epigrammatic abruptness.

He had been pleased _indeed_.

Until Dufresne made some manner of encouragement, the nature or tone of which Henry did not know, and Essex’s packets were the same weight as Dufresne’s overnight – what pages Essex did not fill with epistolary, he filled with artwork instead.

Mr Essex became oft embarrassed, when Henry came upon him whilst he was sketching – and that wounded him, somewhat, that Mr Essex should all but send Dufresne an illustrated diary each week, and yet flinch if Henry should glimpse but a doodle of his on the corner of a page.

Not that Essex would ever do such a thing, of course.

But Mr Essex was _always_ sketching, it seemed to Henry, when he was not working. He read books, of course, but for the vast majority of his time, when settling in his bed with his tray upon his lap on which to write, or later, once he was permitted to walk about the house, albeit slowly, at other desks or tabletops, he was drawing.

Very rarely could he listen for Mr Essex’s heartbeat in the house, and find it unaccompanied by the quiet scratch of graphite on vellum, and yet once Henry entered a room, Mr Essex would cover whatever it was he was drawing, or cease his work upon it to greet him.

He _ached_ to know what Mr Essex was drawing, particularly as he knew him to draw from his own head as much as from any subject before him, and yet there seemed to him to be no easy way to broach the subject without seeming that he was taking advantage of his secretary’s placement in his own home to poke holes in the veil of his privacy, that he might drag down what walls Mr Essex saw fit to keep up about himself.

It was not to say that they didn’t speak with one another – now that Mr Essex was walking upon his crutch, he joined Henry for meals at the dinner table, and they often talked at length.

He rather worried they’d be spending too many hours together, with Essex taking the bedroom some doors from his own, but realistically they did not spend any more time together than was usual, but for Sundays, where Mr Essex would settle quietly in the library and read or sketch while Henry read or pursued some other hobby.

Mr Essex quite liked to listen to him practise at his lute, although he could not play it as well as he should very much like to – but such skill would come only with time and practice, such was the way with any instrument. He was idly playing a piece he’d half-learned as a boy, trying to remember precisely how it had gone: sprawled on his back on the rug beside the fire, his lute rested upon his belly, and he strummed it almost idly, for the memory of his tutelage was now far gone indeed, and he hadn’t the faintest notion of how he might search for this particular tune, for it had been taught to him by rote, not from written music.

“Do you play many instruments, sir?” Essex asked softly. He was sitting in Henry’s favourite armchair, but where Henry tended to curl himself in it, his knees strewn over one of its arms, Essex sat up very straight in it, with a stiff pillow at the base of his back, that he not sink back into its plush embrace, as its maker – and God – intended.

“A handful,” Henry answered. “I am most capable playing the violin, but I fair well with trumpets, and I very much like to play upon the clavichord, although I do not have one in this house. I have a few other stringed instruments in the house – all bowed, but for this lute, I’m afraid – and I have a dulcian and a few flutes.”

“A dulcian?” Essex repeated, seeming curious. He had a wood board balanced upon his knees, upon which he was sketching, and now he looked over it to meet Henry’s eye.

“You take a piece of maple wood, sort of conical in its shape, and bore holes in it.”

“Like a flute?”

“No,” Henry said, “not precisely. Not at all, in fact. I shall show you mine this evening, at dinner.”

“Will you play?”

“If you like.”

Essex gave a very small smile, and nodded his head. There was a domesticity in the moment as it passed between them, Henry still strumming idly at his strings, Essex with his pencil, and Henry at once was arrested by the charm of the situation, the pleasant warmth it imparted that settled in his chest, a comforting glow, and cut by it, knowing that soon enough, it should end.

“Mr Essex.”

“Mr Coffey.”

“Might I ask you a question?”

“Yes, sir,” Essex said. “If it pleases you.”

“It is one you might not answer.”

“Perhaps so,” Essex agreed.

“I should like very much for you to answer it.”

“I will do my best.”

“You are an artist.”

“Is that a question?”

“No,” Henry said. “Merely that— I notice you draw very often, and yet it strikes me that you seem very reticent that I should see what you’ve drawn.”

Essex was quiet for a moment, looking down at his work, and in his expression Henry searched for some particular meaning, some emotion he might make out and extrapolate from which Essex’s feelings, but as ever, Essex was an enigma to end all enigmas.

“I fail to hear in what you say a question, Mr Coffey,” Essex said in a soft voice, his pencil moving upon the page.

“You think I might criticise your work? For what I’ve seen of it, I like your art very much, Mr Essex, and find in your work a flowing poetry.”

“It is very kind of you to say so, sir,” Essex said: his cheeks glowed. “But I fear I should bore you quite supremely, were I to insist on showing you every sketch I put to paper. You have found in these past weeks that I spend a good deal of my time pursuing idle artwork.”

“Mr Essex, I do not believe you could ever bore me,” Henry said softly. “But in any case, your art does not seem idle to me – you work with no small amount of skill. You are embarrassed, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Essex said, breathing out the word as though fearful of lending it too strong a voice, and then, he turned the board upon which he was working, and Henry sat up to look at the page, his lips parting.

The sketch was of Henry himself. It was strange, to see himself through Essex’s eyes, spread out upon his back on the rug beside the fire, his hair loosed from his tie and spread about his head as a halo of light waves, his lute resting upon his chest, his fingers lingering on its strings.

In the sketch, he looked to be a figure of some romance, charming, lovely. In the sketch, Henry’s eyes were closed, his eyelashes caught by the light of the fire, but his lips were parted, as though he were mid-speech. In his expression, there seemed to be some quiet, distant thought, and even to _look_ at the sketch, Henry felt as though there were longing radiating from the page, real, genuine, palpable.

“Is that how you see me?” Henry asked.

“Yes, sir,” Essex said.

 _Am I handsome, in your eyes?_ Henry did not ask. _Do you make everyone seem quite so lovely, when depicted by your pen? I don’t think I would seem so depicted by anybody else._

“Did you ever have your portrait painted?” Essex asked, and distracted, Henry tore his gaze away from the sketch drawing, looking up at Essex’s face.

“Yes,” Henry said. “When I was a young man, at sixteen, when I was first to be married. My fiancée was still in France, and my portrait was sent to her, and her to me. I looked very different in those days. My hair has lightened with age, and I was far paler, skinny.”

“Never again?” Essex asked.

“Never again,” Henry said quietly. “I did not enjoy sitting for the portrait, and some years later, I had it burned.”

“Was it so poor a rendering?” Essex raised one eyebrow as he asked, and Henry laughed, shortly, set his lute carefully aside as he sat up, cross-legged now upon the rug, his elbows resting against his knees. Though he no longer strummed the strings, he could not force his fingers to be entirely still, and he dragged his fingers slowly back and forth over the varnished wood beneath his hands, feeling it cool to the touch. “You never married?”

“No.”

“But you were affianced for some time?”

“I was.”

Essex was quiet, pressing his lips loosely together, and now he looked into the flames at the hearth beside them. “This line of questioning is one that needles at you.”

“It does.”

“I shall not follow it further.”

“I would not curse you if you did.”

Essex pressed his lips together, his eyebrows shifting as he thought carefully, his brow furrowing, and he glanced now back to this. In his eyes, so brown as they were with their colour lightened by the flicker of the fire, there was some turbulent emotion Henry knew not how to classify, and yet caught quite keenly at his heart strings.

“You wish for me to ask you?” Essex asked.

Henry did not know. His answer caught in the back of his throat, unable to pass out through the cage of his teeth.

“Will you answer me, if I do?”

“Her name was Hawise. Hawise Ashdown.”

“Was she a good woman?”

What a question. What depths of the world, of Hell, of every realm across the universe were buried in that question, entirely simple and impossibly complex at once. Henry squeezed the lute more tightly between his knees, tapping his fingers against the wood surface, feeling how smooth it was, feeling the sheen of the varnish, inhaling the delicate scent that lingered to the instrument’s skin.

“No,” Henry answered, finally. “She was not.”

“She is now deceased?”

“She is. I saw her die in ’49.” He was silent, and then amended: “1649.”

“Oh,” Essex said quietly, and then, gently: “I am very sorry, Mr Coffey, for your loss.”

Henry knew not how to correct him, knew not how to explain, how to speak on the subject, how, how, _how_ …

“Thank you, Essex,” Henry said.

He let the night go on.

**THEOPHILUS**

“A gift from Mr Dufresne?” asked Mr Coffey that morning after breakfast, when Ambrose had brought in the correspondence that had been delivered.

“Yes, sir,” Theophilus whispered: in his lap rested a box, wrapped very neatly in brown paper and tied with ribbon in an ornate, complicated bow that seemed to be very difficult to untie until Theophilus pulled at the loop of the ribbon, and it slipped artfully apart. Mr Dufresne’s handwriting had been plain upon the label, and yet what he might have sent, Theophilus had no idea – he had thought it might be a book, and yet it was not so.

It was a comfortable weight in his lap, but not very heavy, and had not rattled or made any noise as Ambrose had carried it in, and now, unfolding the paper, Theophilus felt his lips fall open, his gaze affixed to the wooden surface of the box, and when he pushed up the lid, that he might look within, he was stunned.

The smell of paint was pleasantly powdery, and in the warm light of the morning, each rectangle of pigment seemed every bright indeed: crimson, indigo, antimony, bright white, viridian, a burnt orange… Several brushes were neatly set into one compartment of the small box, as well as a ceramic palette intended for the mixing of pigments together, and when he slid open the drawer at the paint chest’s front, there were revealed a few more carefully stacked mixing trays, and some small cannisters of additional pigment in powder form.

Theophilus had not, in all his life.

 _My dear friend,_ read the note tucked into the box’s wooden top, where thin clips could keep a page in place, that one might use it as a makeshift easel, _I shall eagerly await whatever suits you to portray in colour. Yours, Bartholomew_.

“Paint?” Mr Coffey asked: to Theophilus’ ears, his voice seemed quite distant indeed, for there was a sort of heated rush deafening him to the world’s turning, and he could not think of anything except the smell of the paints before him, their colours, the texture of the carefully carved and segmented wood beneath his fingers.

Mr Dufresne, who had scarce known him even two months, had sent him _paints_ , watercolours – and why? Because he had not any. He could not possibly have sent the paints merely for the sake of seeing Theophilus’ depictions in watercolour, and yet, and _yet_ …

“How thoughtful of him,” Mr Coffey said.

“Yes,” Theophilus agreed, his own voice sounding hollow. “He said in his most recent letter that he should like to see the world as I do – that he should like to see my own depiction in colour.”

He did not know for how long he sat there, staring at the many paints, at their lovely colours, thinking of the way he might combine them in the palettes, and it seemed to him as though the universe was spinning anew on its axis, now at a new angle entirely – Mr Dufresne had sent him a gift, of _paints_ , a gift that was thoughtful, tailored to his interests, that was—

That was quite lovely.

The thought was inescapable, the idea of Mr Dufresne thinking of him whilst going about the course of his business, ordering for him this set of paints and sending it to surprise him, without even late birthday wishes – it was not a birthday gift, but a gift for the sake of it, for the sake of art.

It meant Mr Dufresne thought of him. Considered him. Considered him enough that he should purchase for Theophilus a gift – it meant that Bartholomew was _thinking_ of him.

Bartholomew, who preferred entirely the company of his own sex, who really was quite handsome, an artist, and—

 _And_ …

Theophilus, frozen in his place and very still in his chest, remained fixated upon the new pigments as minute after minute passed him by, and when finally he looked up, Mr Coffey had departed, and he was alone, and overwhelmed.

Flattery met loss.

A headache followed.


	10. Chapter 10

**HENRY**

“You’ve a face like a slapped arse,” said Mr Woodrow as he leaned back in Henry’s armchair: as Henry’s teeth had sunk into the heavy meat at his wrist, he had scarcely flinched, and what small effect Henry’s saliva had had on him when he’d been a young man of thirty had faded entirely now.

Everyone regularly exposed to a vampire’s venom – particularly those exposed to one particular vampire’s venom over time – tended to form some form of immunity, but Ambrose Woodrow Senior had only had the barest wobble in his step afterward, the first time Henry had drunk from him, and now it barely even did that to him. He was a gigantic man, truly hulking, tall and broad-shouldered and easily five times the weight of his son, and at least twice Henry’s own, although Henry’s flesh was very dense and his body far heavier than most men’s.

Henry said nothing as he pulled his banyan slightly tighter around his waist, and Mr Woodrow laughed in a low voice, tapping his knees. He was into his late forties now, on the cusp of his fifties, and Henry was well-accustomed to the thickness of his Scottish brogue, one that many new staff struggled to understand. He regularly heard Matthew asking one of the others what the stablemaster had said, but virtually everyone needed to do that, now and then, except his son.

“Mooning over that wee prick like y’are,” Woodrow said. “Would you not just fuck him and be done with it?”

“Christ’s blood, Ambrose,” Henry said sharply, and Woodrow laughed, and didn’t falter even when Henry shot him a foul expression. Woodrow was a coarse man who cared for horses more than people, and he’d never made a secret of it – for all that he loved his son, he didn’t tend to flinch away from frank advice in regards to _other_ relationships.

“You sayin’ you don’t wannae fuck him?”

“I don’t.”

“You fuckin’ liar.”

Henry pressed his lips together very thinly, walking away from Woodrow and to the window instead, where his curtains were not yet drawn, and he looked out over the trees in the garden, wondering if Astaroth and the other cats had already been tossed out of the door by Mrs Woodbury.

He wondered, too, if Essex was looking out of his own window, or if he was already abed, curled up under his own blankets and sleeping soundly, or, perhaps, if he was still awake, and drawing… or writing letters to Bartholomew Dufresne.

“Go on then,” said Woodrow. “Tell me. Cannae avoid it forever, and I can see you fuckin’ desperate to.”

“Has anybody ever informed you, Ambrose, that you are a prick of the highest order?”

“Aye, sure have,” Woodrow said, shrugging his mighty shoulders. “Think it was in Katie’s vows.”

Henry had only met Katie twice – she’d died less than a year after Ambrose had been born, of some sort of infection, and although Woodrow didn’t talk about her often, Henry knew well that he’d adored her, had worshiped the ground she’d walked on – if he ever let her walk, because both times Henry had met her, Woodrow had been carrying her.

“Isaac was telling Ambrose,” Woodrow said, “that you asked him to stay.”

“Is this what we are reduced to, Ambrose? Men bartering with idle gossip?”

“Don’t you try to pawn this off as idle gossip, you posh twit,” Woodrow retorted, crossing his arms over his chest, the chair beneath him creaking ominously under the extent of his weight. “Go on.”

He had, indeed, asked Essex if he might like to say. He hadn’t made it especially formal, had only brought it up casually over breakfast, had made it seem as much like idle chatter as he possibly could, had tried to make it sound… practical.

He had desperately enjoyed having Essex staying in him. The pleasure of it was delightful, so many quiet moments sitting together before the fire or at the meal table, where Essex would simply settle to draw or to paint, or to watch Henry play an instrument. There was something intimate in it, impossibly intimate, in the domestic thrill of knowing when he woke that Essex was in the very same home as him, was just down the corridor…

There was a strange, distant emotion inside him, on the nights when Essex was already asleep and Henry lay down in his own bed, able to hear – so long as the rest of the night was not so loud, so long as he could concentrate – the beat of Essex’s heart but a few rooms away, to his soft breathing. How many times in these past weeks had he laid there, eyes closed, imaging what it might be to have Essex beside him in his bed, to touch him, to _hold_ him…?

“I told him,” Henry said, drawing shut the curtains, “that if he wished, he would be welcome to take the bedroom here. That he needn’t return to his boarding house at all – I posited it would be cheaper for him, and perhaps more comfortable.”

“D’you tell him you’d like it?” Woodrow asked, raising his bushy eyebrows.

“I said I enjoyed his company.”

Woodrow scoffed, and pushed himself out of his chair, clapping one great hand down on Henry’s back and making him exhale sharply at the sudden punch of it, feeling the bruising blow punch right through his chest, but he didn’t mind, not really. As gruff as he was, as blunt, Woodrow’s intent was never to wound – never emotionally, anyway, and while Henry had no doubt he’d be more than capable of wounding Henry physically, he had never yet had occasion to try, and Henry had no intention of prompting him.

“Fuck him,” he advised, squeezing Henry’s shoulder very hard. “I expect he’d like that.”

“Thank you, Mr Woodrow,” Henry said. “Your wisdom is appreciated, as always. Good night.”

Woodrow replied, after a moment’s consideration, “Perhaps he’d rather fuck you. Don’t know how it works for you mollies. Toss a coin, maybe.”

“Good _night_ ,” Henry growled, but not without affection, and Woodrow stepped out of Henry’s bedroom, letting Henry close the door so that he could douse the candle and fall into his bed, his banyan dropped aside.

 _“Mr Essex_ ,” he’d said, _“if you would prefer it to the boarding house, I should be more than happy to allow you the guest bedroom here.”_

 _“That’s very kind of you, Mr Coffey,”_ Essex had said softly, more to his toast – no butter, only jam – than to Henry himself. _“But I could not possibly impose in such a way upon you.”_

_“It would be no imposition. I like very much to have people in my home.”_

_“But it is your home, sir,”_ Essex had replied. “ _I would not intrude_.”

How could Essex ever be an imposition? The idea was inconceivable, and lying beneath his coverlet, his lips pressed together, Henry ached for the loss of the familiar heartbeat down the corridor, wishing he could only have Essex back, but for what end, to what purpose?

Dufresne was courting him.

He had never before courted anybody, that Henry knew of – he knew Dufresne to be a harlot and a slut, to ever be flirting with whatever man would show him any attention, and he knew well that Dufresne’s home in London had a constant stream of exclusively male houseguests, and that dozens upon dozens of men had passed through Dufresne’s home and, indeed, between his legs.

He was not an unkind man, certainly – he was magnanimous and bright, he was cheerful and charming, chattered brightly, complimented freely, was popular in any new circle he stood in…

But he had never courted before.

Not like this, with these weekly letters to Essex, the letters that made Essex sigh softly or laugh almost silently, the letters that made his thin lips shift into those impossible smiles Henry always tried so hard to draw from him – and that was without even considering the paints, the paints with which Essex worked virtually every day. Henry did not believe he had ever felt jealousy so keenly, so achingly, a sort of hot tar-like thickness in his veins, burning him from the inside out.

And yet, what was to be done?

He could hardly bluntly proposition his clerk, not when Essex would have no opportunity to refuse him, not when Essex was so very concerned about doing that which was _appropriate_ , and in any case, if he had any interest in Henry at all, there was no reason he should be so desirous of Dufresne – Dufresne, who was human and not only that but quite mundane, and Essex’s own age, and who was an artist too, who Essex trusted with his art, although from Henry’s gaze he still hid half of his pages.

He’d asked Essex to stay, and Essex had refused.

This, surely, was to be taken as a rejection as a whole – but Essex hadn’t known of Dufresne’s proclivities until Henry had told him about them, so perhaps it was the case that Essex was merely innocent to the ways of the world, innocent of sex, innocent of intimacy. Unmarried at six-and-twenty, why, it was not unusual, but he had never heard Essex so much as glance at a woman – and yet, when Henry _had_ told him about Dufresne, he had only redoubled his efforts in writing to him, and now the letters passed between them like a bird flying between a scattering of seed and its nest.

It was wrong of Henry even to entertain the idea, of course.

Even had Essex performed the most dreadful of sins, he should not deserve Henry’s attentions, and yet—

Groaning, he fell facedown upon his bedding, and slept fitfully.

* * *

_9 th November, 1764_

_Friday_

_My dear friend, Theophilus,_

_As ever, I open with good wishes for the health of your ankle, and having received your letter telling me that you would soon be returning to your boarding house, I expect as this letter finds you you shall already be well-ensconced there, no doubt settled beneath the warmth of a great many blankets._

_I hope your ankle does not twinge with the cold, as my own leg has been doing of late, voicing its disapproval as to the state of the weather, which is supremely wet and rather icy, although I confess I should well prefer the ice over its powdery counterpart._

_I am hoping the winter chill is not being so unkind to you as it is me – I wonder, are you, as a Greek, more sensitive to that icy bite of wind upon your heels as I am, as a Frenchman? Often do I find myself yearning for the mild winters of my grandparents’ home near Carpentras, where no truly sharp wind can survive the sweet kiss of the Mediterranean. I confess to you, Theophilus, I very much hate the snow, and flee desperately from it – my good friend Maximilien, of whom I have written you previously, whose wardrobe is quite entirely pink, I’m sure you recall, has a great love for the snow, and produces landscape after landscape in lovingly appointed oils of these beauteous, boreal scenes, and I cannot help but think that this is the best way snow ought be enjoyed – through the distant window of another man’s painting._

_The man is obsessed – were it possible to live in some peach-coloured castle in the midst of whatever wintry desert might be discovered upon this Earth, I’ve no doubt he should run for it as a boy running for the arms of his loving mother; he says to me whenever I raise a complaint as to the snow sinking over us, “Ah, but, Tholo, surely you might merely put on a heavier coat and some boots, and stave off the cold?”_

_What thick skins such men as Maximilien have – for I will tell you, he hails from mountainous regions, and thinks of snow as his natural habitat – where they are well-insulated from any chill that might come for them, I confess a desperate jealousy. I tell him, “No, Max, for unlike you I have not this soft blubber with which to warm me: I am instead a man quite thin, and I shiver for the cold!”_

_So says he: “Why, Tholo, if you are ever cold, tell me, and with my seal blubber and my coats alike, I shall warm you!”_

_And I must say to you, Theophilus, there are few places quite so warm as to be held beneath Maximilien’s great pink coat and to be clasped against the beautiful strength and heat of his barrel chest, for as many men so plump do, he carries his heat so very well. We travelled once by coach upon snowy-blanketed roads some years ago, and I confess to you, I spent a very good part of the journey nestled in his lap, for he declared the chatter of my teeth was so irritating a sound that he should prefer to withstand my bony backside jabbing into the flesh of his thigh than to listen to it anymore._

_I love Maximilien very much, and I think you would like him too – he has the most wonderful of laughs, one that rumbles from very deep within his belly and captures hearts of men for miles about him for it sounds out so very loudly, and of course, as all my friends are – for I am a gentleman discerning – he is very handsome, and women and men alike are always hanging from his arms._

_I say all this, of course, because so much as the ice is settled over the streets in great blue sheets, with salt-and-sand islands breaking up the bricks for the sake of one’s walking without collapsing to the cobbles, snow threatens on the winter’s horizon, and I ache at the very idea, for though my rooms here are very warm and comfortable, I know that I cannot secrete myself in their comfortable bounds forever. Imagine!_

_My grandmother, too, very much despises the cold, and she would often declare to me that she would never walk any land upon which snow fell each year – my grandfather always laughs at her, and blows cool air upon her neck, to which she curses his name and declares him to be a fool and a scoundrel, although she will always soften when he embraces her, despite the hadras i baranas she raises about the cold._

_My grandmother is a very evocative story-teller – she speaks very well, and knows every word in French, Portuguese, German, and Ladino, or so it seems to me, although she has pronounced to me that English is beyond her ken, and she has no interest in remedying the fact – and I have a great many fond memories of sitting at their fireside in the mild winters about us, with her telling us – that is to say, myself and my brothers and sisters – all about the struggles of the Hebrews in the deserts of Egypt, and always would she cover up the most visceral images of the sand swirling about one’s feet, its sharp stick against one’s legs and one’s skin, if it was left bare, and most of all she would describe that dry, sweltering heat, weighing on the shoulders of every man, woman, and child, Jew and gentile alike, both slave and master, so as to be inescapable. My favourite of the stories she would tell was in the story of Abraham and Isaac, for she would speak for what seemed like hours upon the land of the mountain as they walked, so that it felt so real I could smell the dusty, bittersweet tang of the olives upon the trees, feel the crunch of thorny leaves and dry earth beneath my heat, so that it felt like I could very nearly reach out and touch my fingers against the thick curl of Isaac’s hair, and feel it soft under my touch, as Abraham did when finally he embraced his son and held him safe to his breast._

_I think, looking back, that it was these stories that created in me the artist, for so very visual was the medium my Nona created with naught but words as her materials, I felt compelled to create them again in paper and ink, for I could not bear to keep them trapped in my head, and as desperately as I wish I might paint as she does with words, I am compared to her the most ineloquent bore imaginable._

_My mother died when I was very young indeed, in childbirth with my younger brother, and we did not go to live with our father – for he had gone off to work in Paris, being a doctor, and this was very far away – until I was some weeks past my fourteenth birthday, and so it seems to me my life was, as a whole, sculpted by the care of my grandparents, and I feel that way even now, I think, for though my father and my grandparents each live a sea away from me, my grandparents feel so much closer. It’s a heart-closeness, I think – you understand? My father is my father, but he does not live in my heart as my grandmother does._

_I confess, my dear, I have little very exciting news to pass onto you – I went to a party last week, for it has been Maurice Alderman’s birthday and being as he is so handsome and rather stupid, we all make rather a fuss of him as a family might make of their younger brother. Nestled we all were within one salon, not nearly as big as your Mr Coffey’s, but some halfway as big, but thirty of us men all crushed in together, and being as the night was very cold despite the roar of the fire, we all together sat upon the rug and sprawled over one another as kings in Ancient Persia, each of us on top of the other and laughing into each other’s mouths, sharing our wine from the same cups._

_Truly, Theophilus, I do think you might rather have adored it, for we ended up descending into complicated word games, where each of us would scrawl upon a piece of paper a tongue-twister and toss it into a bowl, and then we would pass the bowl apart and do our best to read from whatever paper we drew from it, which was hard enough in itself for how very deep we were in our cups, but then some bright-eyed, monstrous young thing – Albus or Albert or Angus or something – suggested we introduce, too, a physical element to the challenge._

_I ask you, my friend, how should you like to attempt to hop drunk upon one leg, whilst stammering out, “My mother maddened by mollies in Mayfair mounted a monstrous advance on Mr Manson Mammon the mummer-molly,” or some likewise nonsense?_

_I was tremendously bad at it, as you might imagine, and the other gentlemen conspired to ensure I kept drawing out words beginning with “h”, and laughing when I didn’t know which were to have a breath behind the letter’s pronunciation and which did not – a cruelty of the English language, I must tell you, that I have never yet been able to wrap my little head about – although quite swiftly did they change their tune when I put some French tongue-teasers into the bowl, and they giggled their way through their abominable attempts at my own tongue, for most of these men read French very well, but cannot speak it at all._

_Talk has become now of what will come of our Yule’s celebrations, for as you might imagine it is the case of some bright excitement, and we shall have to get in our orders of pigs and lemons and fancy trees and what-not – I do not believe I shall be hosting my own, for I could not bear to bother with all the organisation that goes with it. I might happily write out my invitations, but the rest? I have no head for such things, and have no head whatsoever for numbers, so I shall simply go about being invited to other people’s things already organised and neatly set together, and make my pick of the litter._

_Tell me, Theophilus, when you have a number of invitations to variations of an event, such as a Saturnalian festival, would you pick the most vibrant of the parties, with the most exciting of guests and the most expense laid into the meal and the décor, perhaps with costumes and the fanciest of clothes and what have you, or do you pick the runt of the litter, a much smaller soirée with only a modest repast, but undoubtedly a more intimate company?_

_I confess to you, I pick the latter every time._

_Perhaps I do it, for the sake of my ego – which is greatly inflated, anyone will tell you, and I am sure you know yourself – to cultivate a sense of mystique, for when one says one cannot attend the greatest of exciting parties, for you have another soirée to attend, it makes one rather wonder why, what secretive delight is to be found in that party rather than one’s own, and when only a handful of fine ladies and gentlemen witness one’s behaviour, rather than a great many, rumours become so much the more ornate and magnificently ornamented, but that mystery aside, well… I very much like a large crowd, and to speak with so many people, but there is such pleasure that comes from being nestled within a small company, chattering about with but eight people at the maximum, for it is so very intimate, and without a great audience, one might share secrets with one another and speak so very sweetly, and that, of course, is all before night truly descends, and imparts a sense of clandestine wonder, for when comes the dead of night when the company has dwindled to three or four before the comforting fire, one rather feels as though that group might share anything together with no fear of judgement or reprisal._

_That, I believe, is the heart of man._

_Not declarations, not speeches, no, but the softest word spoken in the softest whisper, to one’s companion after a night of revelry has dwindled down to the tender dawn that follows it._

_My dear Theophilus, do you ever think you and I might share an evening such as that?_

_You might join us some time about Christmas, if it might suit you, for I should be very glad indeed to host you, and I have friends with whom you might go to church, if such a thing is of great importance in your eyes, which I imagine it might be._

_In any case, now, I shall sign off and leave you to your day’s musings._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Bartholomew_

On a separate pair of pages:

  * Two men side by side: one of them tall, hulking in his size, broad-shouldered and barrel-built, wearing a suit the colour of salmon flesh and a peach-pastel powdered wig, the other man a good head and shoulders shorter than him, his hair shorter, mousy and mussed about his head, stripped down to his shirtsleeves. The former has his arm about the shoulder of the latter, and both are laughing. The caption: **MAX AND MAURICE EXCHANGING WITTICISMS**.
  * A stretch of brick wall, showing its top: at one end, a sparrow rests, plump and almost globular in its shape, and at the other is a cat, squeezed down very tight against the narrow brick path, focused entirely on the bird, as though ready to pounce.
  * A study of a man’s hands playing cards, the man’s chin and jaw drawn before the sketch stops and fades into nothingness. The man’s mouth is frowning tightly, the detail on the back of the cards drawn in very careful detail, and the caption reads: **A BAD HAND**.
  * A studious-looking gentleman wearing a pair of spectacles, stripped down to his shirt sleeves with a heavy tome held in one hand and resting against his chest as he paces, his brow furrowed in concentration, one of his fingers moving up to push his glasses up his nose. He bears some similarity to Bartholomew himself, in the shape of his jaw, his nose, his ears: the caption reads **DOCTOR DUFRESNE AT WORK**.
  * Two bust-style portraits, the sort that might be placed in each side of a locket: on one side, an elderly woman with a soft expression, her eyes sparkling with mirth, and on the other, an elderly man with a secretive smile, one eye winking. The caption reads, in a fine cursive hand, **Nona & Aveulo**.



* * *

_19 th November, 1764_

_Dear Bartholomew,_

_Thank you very much for your last letter, and the drawings indeed, for I especially liked the portrait of your father, and shall include some own drawings of my own family. There is a certain curiosity in seeking out the family of one’s friends, and seeing in them the resemblance – or otherwise._

_My ankle is very well, thank you for your enquiry, and I do hope your own injury does not ail you overmuch as the cold sets in and forces its chilling air into the space in the old bone. I am, as you had suspected, returned to my proper place at the Audrey Boarding House, and am pleased indeed to return to my own room, though Mr Coffey was of course a very gracious host, and I was grateful indeed for his kindness and his hospitality. I have very much missed the comfort of my own bed, and the solitude is something of a balm for the soul, for Mr Coffey’s house is ever bustling with Mr Coffey himself or with his servants, and that is not so here, for most other tenants tend only to return home for meals and to bed._

_Mr Coffey even suggested before I departed – albeit in an idle way, in conversation at the breakfast table – that if I wished, I might take the guest bedroom at his home for my own, permanently, but [ **A stretch of text is carefully blotted out, so as to be entirely illegible]** I did not consent, for I should not like to overstay my welcome, nor take advantage of my employer’s good nature. My room here is indeed comfortable, and among other things, I very much like the view from my window to the streets below._

_I confess to you, Bartholomew, I am not a man naturally inclined to social connection, as I am sure you have surmised in our meeting and in our subsequent correspondence. I find myself somewhat of the sensation that conversation is a dance to which everyone has been taught the steps but I, and this is an apt metaphor indeed, for though I might carry a tune in a choir, I cannot dance a step without falling over my own feet or, indeed, that of my partner’s. I suppose that watching people from the safety of a window or form a boulevard bench is not the act of a man exuberant as yourself, but I find the people upon this Earth to be very beautiful, their aspects each charming and yet wholly different to one another. I might not be, as you are, so comfortable in exchanging soft words with the dawning sun, but I think I well love my fellow man, Bartholomew, so long as I might be permitted to do so from a distance._

_It brings me great peace to be able to sit at my window and watch the people pass by – my sister used to say I should be happy in some castle or tower, as a duke in a fairy tale, that I might overlook my subjects, but that is hardly true. How might one see their faces, from so high aloft?_

_I am indeed sensitive to the cold, and like you, I find that snow is far more enticing upon a page rather than before one’s body: snow does fall upon the mountains in Greece, but I do not know that I should like to experience it. One would think that the toil of climbing a mountain would be toll enough, but to reach so high, and then be snowed upon?_

_Personally, I would issue a formal complaint, but I am glad indeed you have discovered your own methods – unconventional as they may be – to withstand the cold when it comes for you._

_I always like very much to hear of your friends. It seems you live a very happy life, populated with delightful people, and I am glad indeed that the state of it should bring you such joy._

_Yours, with affection._

_Theophilus Essex_

The letter filling only the spread of one page, there follows six other pages, covered all over with carefully etched images, some in only pencil and ink, others with the addition of watercolour pigment.

Across the first two pages, a series of carefully etched portraits, with watercolour being poured into the pigment of the skin, the eyes, and the hair, their clothes only partially coloured:

  * A gentleman and a lady, in approximately their forties, stand side by side, arm-in-arm, looking out from the page as though poised for a portrait. The gentleman wears a dark-coloured wig, and the lady’s hair is drawn up into a complicated, braided bun, two or three strands of curling hair framing her face on each side. The gentleman has blue eyes and a heavy brow like Essex’s own, square, hard bone structure, and heavy eyebrows, his body broad and square; the lady is taller than him, but thinner, with a similarly square frame, and she has thin lips and very dark, heavily lidded eyes, an aquiline nose and curving cheeks.   
  
Rather than being dressed in a suit and traditional dress, they wear the clothes one would expect in an ancient mosaic: the lady wears a flowing chiton, showing the tone of her arms, and wears a golden rope to band the robe beneath her chest; the gentleman wears a himation, one shoulder bared to the viewer, the robe’s fabric pinned at the other with a golden brooch, engraved with a lion.  
  
The caption reads, very neatly inscribed: **DOCTOR GERASIMUS ESSEX & MRS IOANNA ESSEX.**
  * Beneath another caption printed, **THE BROTHERS ESSEX,** two young men wrestle in a puddle of water. Each has thick manes of curling hair, cut a little shorter than their shoulders, and strong bone structures, their bodies rippling with muscle: each is shirtless and barefoot, and wears only his trousers. The larger of them is still on his feet, his head thrown back as he crowds his victory to the sky, and the other is halfway falling to the floor, his mouth twisted in an expression of horror and surprise, water splashing everywhere beneath their shifting feet. The larger is labelled **DAMAINOS** , his unlucky opponent, **SOCRATES** : in the background of their fight, distant and indistinctly drawn, is another figure, marked **THEOPHILUS**.
  * To the righthand corner of the page, standing alone with her hands loosely clasped before her belly, is another lady, in a chiton much like that of Mrs Essex’s. This woman, too, has her hair worn up in a complicated, basket-woven bun, her head slightly tilted to the side, her thin lips curved into a slight smirk: in her eyes, which are carefully shown in a flint-grey blue, there is a hint of steel. Rather than looking out from the page, she seems to turn her head toward the wrestling boys to her left, as though their game amuses her.   
  
**FEBRONA BRICKSDEN** , reads her caption, **QUEEN OF ALL SHE SURVEYS** _._ Where her mother’s chiton is uncoloured, Mrs Bricksden’s chiton has been painted the colour of lavender.
  * An elderly couple sit upon a couch together, the gentleman bringing his wife’s hands to his mouth to kiss it. He is a large man, muscular although he is plainly very old, and his hair and beard are white; the lady is plump and white-haired, grinning widely. Their caption reads **APOSTOLOS & MARIA ESSEX**.
  * There follow the illustrations of five children, three standing together, marked **AUGUSTINA, ATHENA, AND ASTORIA** , and beneath them, the caption, **THE BRICKSDEN SISTERS**. The three of them are each tall, willowy children, each taking after their mother’s appearance, none of them yet older than then. The other two are boys, and stand apart from one another: **STEFANOS** is a young boy of seven or so, his hands on his hips, balancing on the horizontal shaft of a sail’s mast, noted as the son of Damainos; a babe still in his swaddling clothes, held in faceless arms, is **GEORGIOS** , son of **SOCRATES**.  
  
Each child is drawn in a state of some animation, their personality shining from the page as much as that of the adults drawn, and with obvious affection.



Across the other several pages are a great many drawing and studies, among them portraits of Mr Coffey and some of his staff – Mr Woodrow and his son attending a horse; Mr McElroy bent over with a hoe in his arms; Mrs Woodbury speaking at length to young Lucy, the two of them seated together beside the fire. Here, too, are scattered sketches of cats, dogs, and birds, studies of pencils or paperweights or plates of cold cuts.

On the final page, drawn in careful detail, the ocean it sails on lovingly coloured in deep, green-blues against a duck egg sky, is a ship with great white sails and carefully detailed ropes and rigging. Upon the side of its hull, its name is marked as **ARIADNE**.

A note beside it proclaims it to be the ship upon which Socrates Essex serves as surgeon.

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

In his dream, he was first aware of the heat of the other man’s lips against his own, for that heat was perfect, but searing in its heat. Theophilus was taken away with it, moaning softly although he tried very hard to keep his tongue in check, his hands sliding up beneath the other’s chemise, feeling the softness of his flesh, wishing to grasp at it, even as the other man wound his own hips about Theophilus’ waist, his hands sliding lower to clutch at his backside through his breeches.

Awareness came in dribs and drabs, not all at once, and when he realised he was dreaming, dreaming of a sweet embrace such as this, Theophilus pulled back slightly, and gasped as he saw the identity of the gentleman with whom his mouth had been occupied – he was not faceless, as the figures of his dreams ordinarily were, but held the features of Bartholomew Dufresne, drawn into a smile.

“You no longer wish to kiss me?” he asked, his accent made more pronounced by his breathlessness, although of course, Theophilus recognised it, for even in reading Bartholomew’s letters, he read them in his soft French lilt.

“I do,” Theophilus said, surprised by how quickly he said it himself, how fast the two words fell from his lips, and yet he glanced about himself, finding that the two of them were in Mr Coffey’s office together, leaned back against Mr Coffey’s desk, and his blood was quite cold at the thought.

Putting his hand in Bartholomew’s, feeling the wonderful heat of it, feeling the heat, too, in the blush of his cheeks, he said, “We must go—”

“Not yet,” was Bartholomew’s reply, and they were kissing once more.

The dream passed in a stream of dazzling impressions, of Bartholomew’s mouth, his tongue, the tease of his teeth; at some point, Theophilus’ blouse fell to the floor, that he was shirtless, that Bartholomew’s hands might roam his skin unimpeded, although they were intent upon roaming lower, sliding over and between Theophilus’ thighs.

“We must go,” he squeaked out, embarrassed by the tone and sharpness of his voice. “Please, Tholo, before we are caught—”

“What harm is it if you are caught?” said another voice behind him, more resonant in tone than Bartholomew’s own, and before Theophilus could raise some protest, a cold mouth was dragging wet kisses down the length of his spine, even as chilling thumbs reached about his waist to undo his belt, and Theophilus gasped, shuddering between two mouths, two bodies, at once.

“Oh,” he whispered, “oh, you mustn’t—”

“Oh, Mr Essex,” said Mr Coffey, dragging Theophilus’ breeches down his thighs, his mouth dropping lower even as Theophilus’ voice raised, his teeth sharp, his tongue impossibly, wonderfully cool. “But I must.”

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

Theophilus woke all at once, gasping: his body was drenched in sweat, but it was not sweat only that soaked his sheets, and after a moment of lying in place, staring at the ceiling, he raised himself from bed, dragging his sheets from the mattress so that he might wash them, and stripping off, too, his nightshirt.

He could only thank a merciful God that this particular dream had not occurred under Mr Coffey’s roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am returned to work, so I've not had as much time to write, but I still want to be keeping up writing this on my days off. I read the first chapter of Heart of Stone aloud on Twitter the last day there, [link here](https://twitter.com/i/broadcasts/1jMJgXDpPVYxL), in case that's of interest! 
> 
> As usual, please leave comments as detailed as you like, and if you have any questions about the series or the characters, definitely hit me up on my Twitter or Tumblr! I'm really enjoying working on this story, and any and all feedback as to what's working and what isn't, what people's favourite elements of the series are or favourite characters (or least favourite), and so on is all extremely helpful! Thanks so much for reading! <3


	11. Chapter 11

**HENRY**

“You’re very quiet today, Essex,” Henry said mildly, and Essex looked up from his work, his lips twisting into a deep frown, that familiar furrow appearing between his eyebrows, and his head tilted ever so slightly to the side. He didn’t say anything, even to raise a query, and Henry said, taking pity on him, “Merely a joke, Essex.”

“Ah,” said he. “As you say, sir.”

“Mr and Mrs Quays are glad to see you returned, I expect,” Henry said softly, trying to keep his tone as even, light, and casual as he possibly could. The day had been uneventful thus far – Essex had been somewhat slow in ascending the steps to the building, and again in climbing he stair, but his ankle was mostly quite healed now, and by the time spring came, he would be right as rain anew.

“Yes, sir,” Essex said, “Mrs Quays was especially very welcoming. Three gentlemen – musicians – shall be boarding from the beginning of December through to January, and she had mentioned I might befriend them.”

“Have you any plan to?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought you might not. Will their music unsettle your repose?”

“I do not believe so, sir,” Essex said softly. “They shall be adding to the church’s choir coming up to the Christmas services, and I hardly think their music will be in any way unnerving or upsetting. Noise rarely troubles me significantly, when I know its source. It troubles you?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Your hearing is heightened very much, is it not?” Essex asked. “Due to your vampirism?”

“It is,” Henry murmured, “I confess, even before I was thus converted, I had sensitive ears, but my hearing is greatly ameliorated indeed, now. It is only when I have a headache or some other ailment that such things truly trouble me.”

Essex nodded his head, and Henry watched him a moment, watched the handsome set of his face, itched to say something, to make some manner of invitation, something, _something_ …

“What is it you shall be doing, at Christmas?” Henry asked. “Will you be going home to Cambridge, to your mother and father?”

“I could not say, sir,” Essex said, hesitating a moment, and then he gently set the papers in his lap aside, turning to look at Henry. “Might I ask your advice, sir?”

“Yes?”

“Mr Dufresne extended an invitation to me,” Essex said. “That I should join him in London for their Yuletide celebrations.”

“Correct me if I am incorrect, Essex, but Mr Dufresne is a Jew,” Henry said, surprised by the indignation in his voice. “I was not aware that his people celebrated the holiday.”

“He is, sir,” Essex said. “It would be an invitation to someone else’s soirée, not one of his own – in fact,” he said, with a slight shift of his lips, not quite a smile, “he said he would find friends of his that should accompany me to church services on the morning of the day itself.”

Henry exhaled through his nostrils, keeping his mouth set in a very tight line to keep from snapping something out – the idea of Essex in London, upon Dufresne’s arm, staying in Dufresne’s home or meeting any of his similarly inclined friends, somewhat set his cold blood alight, but it would be far from proper to voice the thought.

Too much showed already in his face: Essex faltered, his lips parting, and he looked at Henry very seriously.

“You disapprove?”

“No, Essex.”

“You might say no, sir, but your expression would indicate otherwise.”

Floundering for a moment, Henry knew not precisely what to say, and then he blurted out, “Well, Essex, I was going to invite you to my own Saturnalian celebrations. That is all.”

“Oh,” Essex said, and to Henry’s surprise, his aspect changed quite entirely, his shoulders relaxing a small amount, his uncertain, pained expression smoothing out to its ordinary neutrality. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, “I had no idea you were planning such a thing, sir.”

He hadn’t been. Henry had never particularly taken interest in Yuletide celebrations in recent years, for they never bore any similarity to the great festivals of his youth, and a few years ago, what with Cromwell’s puritanical nonsense, a bitterness had been laid over the holiday.

“Well,” Henry said. “I have no desire to force your attendance, Essex, if you should prefer to travel down to London and—”

“Oh, no, sir,” Essex said slightly more loudly than he’d been speaking a moment before, as earnest as Essex could be, which was not very, but was noticeable, at least. “I shall say to Bartholomew in my next letter I could not possibly accept his invitation.”

Henry really rather couldn’t believe that had worked, and he stared at Essex for a long few moments, focusing on keeping his expression as neutral as was humanly – or, indeed, vampirically – possible, and nodding his head. “You flatter me indeed, Essex.”

“I hope,” Essex started, and then looked down at the surface of his desk, worrying his lower lip beneath his teeth for a moment before going on, “I hope it is not due to Mr Dufresne’s proclivities that you should not like me to attend, sir.”

“I told you before,” Henry said. “I take no issue with such men.”

“Yes, sir.”

Henry watched Essex’s frozen expression, the twist to it, the pain, and he said, “Is it— Mr Essex. Would I be wrong in surmising that you share Mr Dufresne’s inclination to those of your own sex?”

Mr Essex looked at him with such unequivocal horror writ across his face that Henry’s heart panged at the very sight of him, and Henry wished he could only rush back upon that which he has said, assure Mr Essex that no matter what he had heard in all the world, that Henry himself would never be the remotest danger to him, that he, too, was—

Mr Essex was looking away from him now, distress dragging at the shape of his mouth, and Henry said, “I do not mean to needle at you. Mr Dufresne is a man engaged with others, and has numerous friends who are similarly inclined. Were you to travel to meet him, you would be amongst friends, if you too…” He didn’t finish the sentence, prompted to quiet by Essex’s expression of shame and deep upset, and he only wished he might soothe him, but to tell Essex that they were cut of the same cloth in this moment – how would he take it as anything other than an advance?

“Have you ever kissed anybody, Essex? Man or woman?”

“No, sir,” Essex whispered.

“I told you before I see naught wrong with the practice,” Henry said. “It is quite natural for a young man of your age to seek out intimacy – with other men, indeed, if women are not to his tastes. You are in your prime, Essex, so young as you are. And Dufresne is your age, is he not?”

“A year younger, sir. If that.”

“It is a matter of natural instinct,” Henry said, “for one man to wish to touch a woman, or indeed, another man. The desire for touch, for love, for intimacy, is one that has always been endemic to the human species. And I’m sure I am no expert in such things, but Dufresne is handsome, and charming, and very popular. I would not have invited him to my own birthday party, if I thought him to be in some way dangerous, or unpleasant.”

“You dislike him,” Essex said.

“I do not.”

“Sir,” Essex said, meeting his gaze.

“I find him… long-winded,” Henry said, at length. “He is overly exuberant. I hope you do not think I am opposed to your having friends, Essex. Or, indeed, connections of a more intimate kind.”

“I do not well speak on this subject, sir.”

“That is well, Essex. I would not force you to.”

“Your… _understanding_ ,” Essex whispered to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, “is appreciated.”

What if Henry kissed him now? What if Henry were to cross the floor of this office and take Essex by the back of his neck, to kiss him hard and bring Essex against his breast, to sharply inform him that he didn’t approve of Dufresne whatsoever, and that he should rather take Essex for himself.

“Mr Essex,” Henry said.

“Mr Coffey?”

“Were you to ever be caught, and under threat of the pillory or some other public humiliation, I should rescue you myself.”

Essex glanced cautiously up at Henry, his lips apart, and what was in his face Henry could not be certain, except that there was hesitation plainly present there, and then Essex repeated, “Rescue me?”

“You think I could not get the better of a handful of lawmen and some elderly judge?”

Essex exhaled, and he was smiling as he said, breathlessly, “Mr Coffey, I do not believe so dramatic an act should aid you in avoiding the gaze of the public, as a vampire.”

“I could not possibly care less,” Henry said. “I would no more permit a man in my service pilloried than I should allow him hanged.”

“Thank you, Mr Coffey,” Essex said, taking up his work again. For some minutes afterward, the smile lingered on his lips, and Henry treasured every moment of it dearly.

**HENRY**

“You have nieces and nephews, Essex?”

“Oh, yes, sir. All three of my siblings are married with children of their own – Febrona has three daughters, and Damainos and Socrates each have one son each. Augustina, Athena, and Astoria are ten, eight, and even; Stefanos will be eight years old come the end of this month, and Socrates’ son, Georgios, is not quite a year old, but his wife is pregnant again, I am informed.”

“You like children?”

“I don’t know as to the child on the street, sir, but I like my own nieces and nephews very much. My nieces each have a great strength of character, and they have taken after their mother in the sense of their stubbornness and firm command of any situation whatsoever, and Stefanos already well takes after his father, and climbs rigging so fast you might think he had the blood of some climbing animal in his veins, for he moves very fast, and with a sense of balance you would not believe.”

Henry smiled at the expression on Essex’s face, fond, the ease with which he spoke. “And Georgios?” he asked.

“I have not seen him since he was but two months old,” Essex said. “But he is a tremendously quiet babe, and not so heavy at all – I would occasionally sit in Katherine’s home in the rocking chair, and hold him in my arms, and he would sleep very soundly there.”

“You conjure a sweet image, Mr Essex. You wish for children of your own?”

“Of my own? No, sir.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why ever not?”

Essex glanced at him, and Henry could see the tightness in his expression, the tightness he was not, at this point, entirely unfamiliar with him: wrought in his features was the hesitation of a young man who did not wish to deceive him, and nor answer.

“Never mind, Essex,” Henry said, waving his hand. “I—”

“I do not expect to marry, sir,” Essex said softly. “That is all.”

Very swiftly, Essex bowed his head and put his cloak about his shoulders, and Henry watched him with his lips pressed loosely together, unable to prevent the sadness showing in his own face.

“I shall deliver this packet to the printing house, sir,” Essex said, already putting his fingers beneath the string of the parcel.

“I never married either, I would remind you,” Henry said. “One doesn’t need a wife, Essex, to be happy.”

“ _Are_ you happy, sir?” Essex asked, in a voice so deathly quiet he scarcely breathed out the words, and he looked up at Henry even with his head still bowed toward the floor, as though the very idea of the answer was one that frightened him.

Henry laughed, and said, with all the genuine warmth he could inject into the words, “Right now, Essex? Yes. Very.”

Essex considered this for a moment, but then, he raised his head slightly, and he gave a very neat, square nod of his head before picking up the parcel, holding it against his breast. He didn’t say anything as he slipped down the stairs and moved out into the cool air, and Henry softly sighed as he watched him go.

**THEOPHILUS**

It was a frosty day.

There was no snow, but the wind was a chill one indeed, biting at him and making his fingers feel very numb despite the fabric of his gloves, and he huddled in his cloak as he walked, ignoring the slight ache in his ankle, sensitive for the cold. He was almost grateful for it, in truth,

“Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said to him on the twenty-first day of December as he stepped into the office. Mr Coffey was sitting at his desk, his expression very serious, and immediately Theophilus felt a deep sense of uncertainty, of worry, for it was rare that Mr Coffey was immediately of so cool and solemn a mood of a morning.

“Mr Coffey?”

“I merely wished to tell you that you might wish to accept Mr Dufresne’s invitation after all,” Mr Coffey said, and Theophilus stared at him, feeling a strange, uncertain sensation in his chest, a sensation he often felt when talk turned to Bartholomew between he and Mr Coffey.

No matter that Mr Coffey always defended so vigorously Theophilus’ right to correspond with whomever he pleased, and had been making a great many comments as of late as to his belief that men such as Bartholomew should be able to be intimate with whomever _they_ pleased, there was a strange sense of the forbidden, a strange sense that they were discussing something they ought not be. Theophilus really couldn’t say what precisely it was about Bartholomew that Mr Coffey so disliked, for he only ever criticised elements of Bartholomew’s personality that he and Mr Coffey had in common, but for their intimate inclinations, and yet still, Theophilus was reticent, at times, to encourage the discussion.

And yet—

He had been looking forward to attending Mr Coffey’s celebrations. Mr Coffey had confessed to having no great love for the festival, but Theophilus had even less of a passion for it, and had been excited merely at the idea of his company, at the idea of those that Mr Coffey might gather together, the conversations, the music, and all the rest – and best of all, perhaps, the lingering moments at the end of the evening, speaking with Mr Coffey.

Bartholomew’s words came to him often, when thinking of those dawning hours that he had spent with Mr Coffey at other such occasions, at the intimacy of that time, and perhaps it was selfish of him, or in some way insidious, but he had been desperately craving that that time should pass between them anew, and on Christmas, too.

The disappointment was an unhappy weight, and sank down within him, its ragged edges tearing as it fell.

“Mr Coffey?”

“A very bad influenza has set upon my household,” Henry said softly. He seemed somewhat paler than was his usual, and Theophilus carefully set his satchel aside, drawing his cloak from about his shoulder but not yet moving to hang it up, instead sinking into the seat across from Mr Coffey’s desk and looking at him intently as he spoke. “Mr McElroy died very early this morning; Mr Woodrow, Mrs Woodbury, and young Mr Landrake are all very ill in their beds. Mr Judge had been visiting his family, and I advised he remain there until I know all will be well; and our cook, Mrs Haverly, is down in London with her daughter, and I have advised they stay there, also. Mr Woodrow Junior seems to be quite immune, as is Sarah, Mrs Woodbury’s junior maid, but of my household, those two are the only people still standing.

“I hate indeed to disappoint you, Mr Essex, but I could not in good conscience invite others to my home when so many of my household are so very ill.”

“My disappointment is nothing, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said softly. “I’m very sorry for the loss of Mr McElroy.”

He had met Mr McElroy, an ancient Irishman who kept himself focused almost entirely upon Mr Coffey’s garden and its upkeep, and lived apart from the servants’ quarters in a small shack he had built himself in the corner of the garden’s sprawl. He had drawn him, even, bent double over his ancient hoe, or speaking softly to the roses he cultivated, and although he had scarcely spoken to him, crotchety and aged as he was, he had rather liked him. Both times they had spoken, Mr McElroy had bade him put on his cloak were he outside, and declared he should catch his death of the cold if he didn’t, had each time joked he had no wish to put a frozen Greek to fertilise his roses, but would do so if Theophilus wouldn’t go inside and put on his coat.

Mr Coffey gave a stout nod of his head, and Theophilus said, “Can you catch this illness?”

“No,” Henry said quietly, shaking his head. “No, I… I can become ill, of course, but those would be magical illnesses, quite apart from those that would ravage the mundane. _You_ , on the other hand, would be far from immune. As I said, you ought to London, to young Dufresne.”

“And you, sir?” Theophilus asked.

“Me, Essex?”

“What will you do?”

“Why, work, I expect,” Mr Coffey said quietly. “We have a doctor looking in upon the group, a gentleman I know, but I…” Mr Coffey trailed off, looking pained, and he set his hands in his lap and turned away from Theophilus for a moment, looking toward the window. “There is nothing I can do for any of them. There is a tremendous guilt I feel, settling in their presence with the knowledge that what ails them cannot ail me. That even as they die, I will not. And whatever is the point of that guilt, I wonder? What good does my guilty feeling do them? No, Essex, I shall focus my mind upon my work, and lose myself in it as best I can.”

“Very well, sir,” Theophilus said quietly. “I shall join you.”

Mr Coffey turned to stare at him, his mouth fallen open, his expression aghast. “Mr Essex, you will do no such thing.”

“Why not, sir?”

“This is a holiday, Essex, and I would not draw you from your friends or family to read through essays with me.”

“I do not recall you drawing me in one direction or another, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said. “I have drawn myself thus, and shall remain here.”

“I forbid it.”

“You forbid it?”

“I do.”

“You will call for the constabulary if I insist upon remaining here, and call me a trespasser?”

“I may well, Essex.”

“Very well, sir,” Theophilus said simply. “Although I should expect they will think you a tremendous eccentric.” He sat in his place, remaining very still, as Mr Coffey looked at him furiously, opened his mouth and then closed it again, couldn’t seem to think of what to say, floundering. He said softly, doing his best to retain a sympathetic tone, although what precisely a sympathetic tone comprised of he could not be sure, for he had been admonished many times in the past for speaking coldly upon a subject when he did not mean to, “You have seen a great many servants die in your lifetime, I suppose.”

“Yes, Essex,” Henry said quietly. “And friends, besides.”

It seemed to him to be a very painful truth, for a gentleman to live as long as Mr Coffey had and see the deaths that accompanied such a life, and yet part of Theophilus couldn’t help but feel there might be some appeal in it, knowing that you were impervious to death, as no other men were.

“I really would never have chosen this for myself, you know,” Mr Coffey said softly. “Had I the choice. And so I put myself to that I can, and live on, but it is— Ah, Essex. It might sound foolish of me to say, but sometimes to live as I do is the most tremendous of bores.”

“I will stay, Mr Coffey,” Essex said quietly.

Mr Coffey sighed, softly, and looked toward the window. “Thank you, Mr Essex. You are kinder than I deserve.”

“No, sir,” Theophilus said, and he watched Mr Coffey huff out a sound, then move across the room and pick up his cloak, putting it about his shoulders.

“I will not so much as look at a page today, Mr Essex.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And nor shall you.”

“As you say, sir,” Theophilus said, with more uncertainty, this time.

“We shall promenade in Vauxhall Gardens, Essex, and dine at an eatery.”

Mr Coffey was not a gentleman who liked to dwell on unpleasant emotions, when it were possible that he should distract himself instead, and thus Theophilus poised no argument as he raised himself to his own feet and put on his own cloak, drawing out his gloves from where he had eased them from his fingers.

“Mr Coffey?”

“Mr Essex.”

“How was Christmas celebrated, when you were a young man?”

“Oh,” said Mr Coffey, and Theophilus watched him as his very body seemed to change its energies: he perked up as a flower under sunlight, his hair bouncing in its tie, his lips parting in a smile, and in his eyes, it seemed to Theophilus, there was a sudden light. Theophilus did not know, entirely, what it was like to be in love, for he had never experienced such a thing, but he did wonder, in the moment, if it felt rather like this.

A glow burned in his chest, a candlelight that was slowly swelling to a real, full flame, and no matter that they were to step out into the cold, no matter that Mr Coffey was a cold man to the touch, he felt tremendously warm.

“It was a twelve-day festival,” Mr Coffey was saying passionately, holding out Theophilus hat for him to take. “And there was music, spiced wine, and such revelry, Essex, as you would never know today—”

Essex smiled to himself as he put on his hat, and settled into step beside Mr Coffey, listening to him talk, and talk, the sound of his voice, rich and melodic, washing over him as they walked together, sweeter than any music.

Some hours later, when they were seated upon a bench together, after Mr Coffey had been speaking at some length on the subject of trousers, and the extent to which they had evolved since his youth – a subject that Theophilus had actually found rather interesting, and had rather engaged with, Mr Coffey turned to him, and said, “Mr Essex.”

“Mr Coffey?”

Mr Coffey looked at him, silently, today without his parasol for the sun was shining very wanly through a thick, white haze of cloud clover, and was very cold indeed, and then said, “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said, but to his surprise, Mr Coffey reached out, and touched his arm, wrapped his gloved hand about Theophilus’ shoulder and squeezed it.

“Mr Essex, it is anything but,” Mr Coffey said. “I am grateful indeed to call you my friend.”

“It is a mutual gratitude, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said softly, doing his best to ignore the burn in his cheeks, and Mr Coffey drew his hand away, settling each of his hands in his lap.

“You know, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said, looking out over the neatly trimmed hedges that sprawled out before them, “if you find that you well love Mr Dufresne, I would have you make the best of that love. There is not nearly enough of it in the world.”

“And if it is not love, sir?”

“If it is lust, you mean?”

Disapprovingly, Theophilus merely said, “Sir.”

“If it is lust,” Mr Coffey went on, undeterred, “there is all the more reason to indulge.”

Theophilus said nothing, for he knew not how to respond, how best to draw his tongue into line, that it should say the appropriate thing, the correct thing. To be appropriate was ever a task Sisyphean.

“I have never been in love,” Mr Coffey said to the white-grey skies. “It seems to be a thing people ought treasure.”

“Why is it you do not seek out other vampires?” Theophilus asked softly. “You might find for yourself a wife amongst such people.”

Mr Coffey inhaled, sharply, his expression turning cold.

“I have wounded you,” Theophilus said.

“No,” Mr Coffey said. “No. You are ever a balm for my wounds, Mr Essex, not the cause of them.”

Mr Coffey was paler now, it seemed to Essex, than he had been earlier in the day – his skin had taken on a strangely pallid colour instead of its ordinarily sun-kissed hue, and there was a chalkiness to his flesh that seemed to Essex to be very unhealthy.

“Perhaps we ought move to dine, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said softly. “You might feel better then.”

“Very well, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey murmured, and stood to his feet. They walked together as the night began to settle in, the night growing colder, and when Mr Coffey began to speak at length again, this time about an accident he had once had in attempting to restring his violin, whereupon he had managed to cut himself across the bridge of his nose with the snapped catgut, Mr Essex allowed himself simply to listen, and be quiet.

His thoughts strayed to the man he had been but a few years ago, and tried to imagine this very situation with Mr Greenwich in place of Mr Coffey: his mind rather rebelled at the thought.

The present was a happier time indeed than the past.


	12. Chapter 12

**HENRY**

The candles had been dimmed to burn very low as Henry stepped into Hanna’s rooms, his step very soft upon the floor. He had been able to hear her coughing hard as soon as he had stepped over the threshold and into the house, and now, it was a deeply cutting sound, at once wet and ragged in its profile, and audibly painful.

He could smell the blood on the air, tainted by her illness, and he moved smoothly forward, pouring more tea for her – a fragrant, ginger-spiced tea, the better to clear her lungs as best might be done in the moment – and putting the cup in her shaking hands, putting her handkerchief aside.

“Where is Ambrose?” Hanna asked in a choked, pained voice, rubbing at her throat, and Henry waited until she had taken a sip of her tea before he moved to seat himself in the chair dragged up beside her bed.

In the rest of the house, he could hear the other patients – Mr Woodrow was out in the stables, but his case was milder, at least, and he was sleeping in the moment, though his snores were louder for the phlegm blocking his nose and his throat; a few rooms away, he could hear Mr Landrake gagging again, unable to keep down any food, and young Miss Smith softly telling him he’d be right as rain, soon enough.

“He’s asleep,” Henry said softly. “He told me he hadn’t slept a wink the night before last, that he’d been too worried about you, and his father.”

“You hypnotised him?” Hanna asked, and perhaps from someone else there might have been judgement in the question as poised, but Henry heard no such judgement here, and felt no guilt whatsoever.

“I saw no reason not to,” Henry said. “He will only make himself vulnerable to some other malady, if he foregoes food, water, and rest.”

“I shall be dead before the new year,” Hanna said.

“You needn’t make promises on my account,” Henry murmured, and Hanna laughed, but it sounded agonised, and Henry could hear the thickness in her lungs, could _hear_ the crackle of the inflammation, and suppressed the urge to sigh, instead reaching out and taking Hanna’s hand in his own.

Hanna sighed, her eyes falling closed, and she squeezed his hand. “Your hands are so very cold, Henry.”

“I know,” Henry murmured.

“I did tell you,” Hanna said, her eyes closed as her head lolled back upon the pillow, and Henry nodded his head.

“You did,” he murmured. “How is Matthew?”

“The nausea continues. So long as he can withstand it for another few days, he ought be well.” He could hear the sound of Hanna’s heartbeat, weak as it was, and he felt somewhat faint himself, an exhaustion having settled over him, for he needed to feed, and could not. Ordinarily, he would drink every night, but to fast on Sundays – in these past weeks, he had drunk only once per week, once from Ambrose and once from Sarah, and he would not be able to do that in the days to come. It would do little for them to be at a loss for blood whilst already caring for the others.

“You must look after Ambrose and the others,” Hanna said. “You must.”

“I will, Hanna,” Henry murmured, gently stroking his thumb back and forth over the back of her hand, where the skin was rough and in places spattered with darker spots. “Shall I read to you?”

“Yes,” she said, coughing again. “Do.”

He did not sleep for some hours, until Hanna herself was entirely asleep, and then he slept for what scant hour he might, before he rose slowly from his bed, feeling ill indeed.

Such as it was.

**THEOPHILUS**

“Happy Christmas, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said, and Theophilus smiled, until he laid eyes on the other man. It was Christmas day, and he had brought with him a small parcel to exchange with Mr Coffey himself, but now watching him, Theophilus was struck dumb, his expression uncertain, his lips apart.

Mr Coffey looked the palest Theophilus had ever seen him, his skin chalky and with a rough appearance to it, no longer smooth and unmarred, as he would ordinarily expect. There were heavy shadows beneath Mr Coffey’s eyes, and his perfect mouth was not as darkly pink and full and plump as usual, but pale, and chapped.

He had been carrying an increasing pallor in these past weeks, but Theophilus had not seen him since Saturday, for he had attended chapel services on Sunday, and again on Monday, for it had been Christmas Eve, and in the two days, Mr Coffey had come to look every ill indeed. Even his hair seemed lank, all but falling from its tie at the base of his neck, and although he was smiling, Theophilus did not smile back.

“Happy Christmas,” he said softly. “Mr Coffey, you do not look well.”

“It’s nothing,” Mr Coffey said, shaking his head.

“You said you could not be made ill with the influenza in your home,” Theophilus said quietly, laying his package upon the desk and looking at him seriously, his mouth twisted. “Mr Coffey—”

“Essex, it is not the influenza,” Mr Coffey said, and reached up, rubbing at one of his tired-looking eyes. “If you would not mind, Essex, I should rather not discuss it.”

“I do mind, sir.”

Mr Coffey exhaled, and then looked to the parcel Theophilus had set upon the table, wrapped as it was in green cloth, and loosely tied with ribbon. Indicating it with a small movement of a trembling hand, he asked, “What is this?”

“It’s a gift,” Theophilus said.

“For me?”

“For you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I will take it back then,” Theophilus said, reaching for it, but Mr Coffey grabbed for his hand.

“No!” he protested, and Theophilus exhaled a small, sharp huff of laughter as he retracted his hand from the cool grasp of Mr Coffey’s own, letting Mr Coffey take up the parcel and draw it toward himself. He still felt nervous as to passing it over, but in Mr Coffey’s face there was a genuine joy, a delight, and he swallowed. “May I ppen it?”

“Of course,” Theophilus said. “It would be a strange gift indeed, were I to deny you that.”

He watched as Mr Coffey hastily draw the parcel to himself, undoing the ribbon with gracefully moving hands, and then pulled apart the folded cloth, to reveal what lay within.

“A book?” he asked.

“Not quite,” Theophilus said, He had bound the pages in cardboard, had stitched it himself with what little skill he had with a needle and thick thread, and he felt as though the base had fallen out from his belly as Mr Coffey drew open the board, and stared at the first page.

It was a sketch of Mr Coffey, of course, and Theophilus had spent some hours carefully detailing the pattern of his waistcoat, though in the sketch Mr Coffey wore only his shirtsleeves, and was reading a book, bent over it at his desk, his expression a mask of concentration. Mr Coffey was silent for a moment, staring down at it, and then he turned the page.

A sketch of Mr McElroy, now, kneeling before a flowerbed; a sketch of Mrs Woodbury seated upon the outdoor bench, speaking with Sarah Smith and Lucy Haverly; Ambrose Woodrows arguing with one another, Woodrow Snr gesturing furiously with one great fist, Woodrow Jnr threatening his father with a clenched fist and a snarl on his face; Astaroth in the lap of Mrs Haverly, purring away as her hands stroked over his back; Gráinne and Joseph Jones in conversation, leaning in toward one another.

He had done his best to include everyone he might think of, everyone who worked in Mr Essex’s home, with whom he had contact, but those he had spoken to most at his birthday party too, other publishers, writers, and the like.

Standing still in his place, he felt as though he had been quite rooted to the spot, as though iron pins had been driven through his feet so as to keep him there, and he scarcely dared even to breathe as Mr Coffey paged through each and every drawing, looking closely at every one of them. Some of them, Theophilus had drawn in only pencil or pen, and others he had delicately appointed using his watercolours: the bulk of them he had selected from the piles of sketches he already had to hand, but some of them he had drawn particularly.

“Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey whispered, once he came to the last page, this one a sketch of Mr Coffey once again, holding his parasol over his head and wearing his dark-coloured glasses, smiling with his teeth extended, “whatever made you think to do this?”

“You dislike them?” Theophilus asked, terrified in the moment that he had crossed some invisible line into the realms of the inappropriate or the invasive, and thinking privately of the more risqué depictions of Mr Coffey in which he had indulged, guilt burning and running through his very veins like blood. “I merely thought—”

“Mr Essex, I am touched,” Mr Coffey said softly. “I thought you nervous of showing me your art: to be gifted so beautiful a variety, I am delighted beyond measure. It is— This is very kind.” Mr Coffey was paging back through the book, his lips parted, and his expression was awed, delighted, and the relief felt liable to lift Theophilus from his feet, the delight at seeing his employer so _pleased_. “But…”

“But?”

“Mr Essex, it seems to me you’ve drawn or painted every friend you know me to have, as well as portraits of me myself, and even the servants’ cats.”

“Yes, sir,” Essex said.

“But, Essex,” Mr Coffey said. “Where are you?”

Theophilus didn’t know how to respond to that. It hadn’t occurred to him, when he had been working – he never had inclined himself to self-portraiture, wasn’t ordinarily comfortable with the idea of studying himself in the mirror to draw himself by, and…

“It was intended for the sake of souvenir, sir,” Theophilus said quietly, “That you might remember each of them.”

“You think I don’t wish to remember you?”

Theophilus frowned. “You won’t need to, sir. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mr Coffey laughed, and he carefully pushed the book closed, smoothing his fingers over its surface. “Thank you, Essex, it’s very kind. Here.”

Theophilus stared at the wooden box that Mr Coffey drew out from his desk, and he stared at it a moment, uncertain, before he reached out and took it gently from him, stroking his fingers over the carved pattern on the box’s lid. It was a wide box, flat, and when he opened it, he felt himself so very still, staring at the fabric.

It was a very dark blue, closer to midnight than to navy, and yet as he tilted the fabric under the light, there was the subtlest curl of another shade of colour in it, and he stepped toward the window, setting the box down upon the table there and drawing the fabric from within.

“Ultramarine,” he said softly, tilting the fabric in the light: it was an exceedingly subtle pattern mixed in with the weave of the rest of the fabric’s thread, creating a stripe you could only really see if you examined it under the light, for the thin stripes of deeper blue only really showed when illuminated.

“If it’s subtle enough for you,” Mr Coffey said, “I would have it made into a vest.”

“Oh,” Theophilus said, turning to look at him, and Mr Coffey smiled at him, but Theophilus couldn’t really delight in the smile, for Mr Coffey was leaning his chin upon his hand, and rather than the ordinary look of casual engagement the position ordinarily imparted, he looked exhausted, as though he were struggling to keep his head up. “It’s a beautiful fabric, Mr Coffey. Thank you.” He hesitated a moment, and then said, “Mr Coffey.”

“Mr Essex.”

“Perhaps you ought go home. You look unwell.”

“Much of my household is unwell, Mr Essex, that is all,” Mr Coffey said tiredly. “I cannot take in the sustenance I ordinarily might.”

“Sustenance?” Theophilus repeated, and carefully folded the fabric’s sample again, sliding it back into the box, even as he stepped closer to Mr Coffey. “Blood, sir?”

“I drink ordinarily from those in my household, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said softly. “Six nights a week, and a fast day, but I would not drink from anyone I felt wasn’t hale and hearty enough to withstand it.”

“You have been starving, then,” Theophilus said quietly.

“No,” Mr Coffey said. “No, a vampire takes months to starve, Mr Essex, and in such a case as I was truly desperate, I can ask someone in the witch’s market.”

“You would approach someone in the street? Even amidst magical peoples, sir, that seems bold indeed.”

“I would not, by any means,” Mr Coffey said. “I do hate to potentially offend your sensibilities, Mr Essex, but I fear I would step into the brothel there.”

Theophilus felt his mouth fall open, a hot flush burning in his cheeks, and he swallowed. “The— the brothel, sir? Why— Why ever is it that you can’t drink from— from Ambrose, or Miss Smith? They are still hale and hearty, are they not?” The brothel. The brothel. The _brothel!_

The very idea of Mr Coffey within the walls of such a place, stepping amidst the young ladies that populated such a bordello, caught and dragged within his mind, and his mind very much rebelled – and yet it rebelled even more so at the idea that Mr Coffey had seemed so very ill these past weeks because he was _starving_ , because he was going without the sustenance he needed.

“They wouldn’t be if I drank from them every night,” Mr Coffey murmured. “It is the iron in a man’s blood I am in need of, Mr Essex, but to deplete someone of their iron and give them no opportunity to recover it would be to kill them very unpleasantly.”

“When last did you drink?”

“Mr Essex—”

“Mr Coffey.”

Mr Coffey looked away for a moment, and then said softly, “Six days.”

Theophilus drew off his coat, hanging it upon the rack, and thus stripped down to his shirt sleeves, he picked up the chair across from Mr Coffey’s desk and set it down in the centre of the room, sinking down into it, and began to loosen his cravat.

“Mr Essex—”

“I would not share a holiday with a man starved, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said, trying to ignore the desperate heat in his cheeks, the hard beat of his heart. How often, in recent weeks, had he dreamed of this in this waking moments, and once or twice, in his sleeping ones, as well? How many times had he envisioned the slow sink of Mr Coffey’s impossibly sharp teeth into flesh, into _his_ flesh? It was wrong of him, perhaps, to be so eager at the chance to feel them, to offer himself under their bite, but Mr Coffey was _hungry_ , wasn’t he? This was not merely an act of desire on his part, but a need to ensure Mr Coffey was not quite so unsteady on his feet.

“Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey said, standing to his feet as Theophilus loosed his cravat and set it aside, and then began at the buttons of his shirt collar. “Mr Essex, the venom in my saliva is no light measure—”

“You believe it will kill me?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“You believe it will call me some great injury?”

“Well, _no_.”

“Then what quarrel have you?”

Mr Coffey’s gaze, now, was fixated upon the column of Theophilus’ neck, and Theophilus felt he could see the hunger in the malachite-flecked focus of his eyes, the need, the _thirst_. His skin felt very hot beneath his clothes, and he could scarcely believe the position he was in, feeling dizzy with it.

Mr Coffey was looking at him with desire wrought in his face.

He felt he might _die_ with it.

“This will be port’s effect tenfold,” said Mr Coffey, stood very still upon the spot, as though he dared not step any closer.

“That is a cross I shall bear, sir.”

Mr Coffey swallowed.

“Very well, Mr Essex,” he whispered.

**HENRY**

The column of Essex’s neck was an impossible temptation. It was a long neck, elegant, and with it bared to the open air with Essex’s collar pulled aside, he could see the infinitesimal jump of Essex’s pulse beneath the flesh, a veritable x upon the map, inviting him to sink his teeth in.

He could smell Essex on the air, smell the polished leather of his shoes, could smell the watercolour pigment scent that clung to his clothes and his skin, and he could smell Essex, too, smell _him_ , and he wanted…

What would Essex’s skin taste like, beneath his tongue? How smoothly would his skin part under the press of Henry’s teeth, how thick would his blood be, and how would it taste? Already, he was hungry, had been achingly hungry for days, felt a distant dizziness, knew that he looked unwell, knew his hunger was visible from a distance, even, and here was Essex, offering himself up.

Vampiric venom did not only leave its opiate effect, did not only leave its victims pleasure-drunk and witless – it ceased the blood’s coagulatory effect, and more than that, opened the veins. He knew well that many a vampire plied their trade within brothels across the world, for the sake of their venom’s effects alone, and to think—

Would Essex be one of those men who responded to a vampire’s bite with arousal? With desire? It was the thought of a cad, impossibly selfish, utterly salacious, and yet he could not help but anchor himself to it, could not help but _hunger_.

“Mr Essex,” Henry said, making one last attempt, “I of course very much am grateful for your offer, but I—”

“You have regularly hosted me, Mr Coffey, and fed me. You would so dispute I should return your hospitality?”

“The two points are incomparable.”

“Then let us cease our comparison.”

Henry stepped slowly forward, closer, standing behind Essex’s seat, and he watched as Essex gently pulled his hair to the side by its tail, even as he tilted his head to the side. Henry had never really linked feeding to sex in his mind, as he knew some vampires did, but it was utterly impossible to look at Essex’s bared neck and not ache to bare the rest of him, to kiss him from the curve of his ankle up to the curve of his lip, to _witness_ him. It was immoral of him, truly, not to insist Essex offer his wrist, as ordinarily people did, but he wanted, he _wanted_ —

“There will be a pinprick of pain,” Henry said quietly, “followed by— followed by pleasure. I can’t say how long it will last, but it will be hours, perhaps half a day, perhaps more.”

“Very well, sir.”

He did not allow himself to hesitate any further.

Curling his fingers in Essex’s hair, refamiliarizing himself with the softness of those thick curls, he tugged his head slightly further to the side, and put his mouth to Essex’s neck.

Essex let out a sharp, reedy noise at the cool wetness of Henry’s tongue, finding the point of the artery beneath the skin, and he watched Essex’s feet press harder against the floor, watched his knees spread slightly apart, watched his hands grasp and drag at the arms of the chair.

Henry extended his teeth, and Essex moaned.

**THEOPHILUS**

Mr Coffey’s lips were so cool against his skin, his tongue cold, soft, and wet to the touch where it dragged against his skin, and he could not help the noise that escaped his gritted teeth, for never in his life had any man touched him such a day, and never had he so enjoyed such a thing. When Mr Coffey bit down, two sharp pricks of main caught into skin, a puncture-sharpness that radiated momentarily outward, but immediately followed another sensation.

The port, certainly, had imparted after some while of drinking a warm glow that sank into the weight of his limbs, settled sweet and honeyed beneath his skin, and although he had felt unsteady upon his feet, feeling as though he were moving upon roiling waves, it had overall been a pleasant sensation—

But this?

Mr Coffey had said this would be the port’s effect tenfold: it seemed to Theophilus that this sensation was wholly and entirely different.

Sudden, tingling delight was poured into his veins as hot as molten metal, and he was aware that he was making noise from the base of his throat as he felt Mr Coffey’s tongue lap over the well of blood from the marks he had made, his head lolling in Mr Coffey’s hand, but the sensation was too overwhelming to do aught else. He had imagined the vampire’s bite would be pain and perhaps some subtle delight, but this was anything but subtle: he felt as though his every limb were being set alight from within its flesh, his heart beating fast and hard within his chest, and that impossible, delicious heat sank down immediately between his thighs, affecting him to an arousal that should ordinarily embarrass him, but now?

Embarrassment seemed to be a distant dream.

He could not focus on anything but for the bite, for he had been doused and drowned in ecstasy, as though he were floating some way above anything he had ever known: he wondered for a scant moment if he were dreaming, if this was but one more dream amidst those he had had of Mr Coffey, in recent weeks.

He felt so very heavy, his every inch of skin hot and thrumming with strange delectation, and his world had narrowed down to the fine points of Mr Coffey’s teeth.

**HENRY**

Essex was making such noise as Henry could never have dreamed of.

“Ah—” Essex gasped out, choked out the whimper as Henry delicately adjusted his grip in his hair, and immediately Essex leaned himself further into Henry’s hair, and Henry was weak: he pressed his fingers into Essex’s scalp, massaging the skin there, and Essex heaved in sharp gasps.

His left hand, not gripping tightly at the arm of the chair he was settled in, clumsily reached up, seeing Henry’s own, and when Henry’s hand enclosed his, Essex released a soft sound, and drew Henry’s hand to rest upon his shoulder, squeezing Henry’s fingers tightly with his own.

Like this, poised as he was behind Essex, the back of the chair between them, and Henry only wished that he could see his face, see the rictus of ecstasy no doubt showing on his face as he was taken away with it: in this position, he could see the wide spread of Essex’s legs, his thighs pressed hard apart, and see the bulge beneath the fabric of his breeches.

His hips were shifting slightly, making the smallest of movements, rocking into the very air before him, and Henry did his best to ignore his own arousal, but how could he, with Theophilus Essex beneath him like this, making such gasping, eager noises as he was?

Would Essex be like this, if Henry took him into his bed?

Would he arch like this beneath Henry’s mouth even with his teeth unbared, would he make such delectable sounds as this, would he cry out, would he want to hold Henry’s hand as he was now?

It was painful, to draw back from Essex’s neck.

He was unusually hungry, owing to have gone so long without proper sustenance, but more than that, Essex’s throat was so wonderfully warm beneath his mouth, and seeing him arch and shift in his seat, hearing him moan, was an intimacy beyond measure, one he did not know he would ever again experience.

He had left bruises, he realised, had drunk overzealously, and he felt a sudden, burning guilt even as he carefully healed the marks he’d left, and when he stepped around the chair, Mr Essex reached for him, grasped now at both of his hands.

“ _God_ ,” Essex gasped out, dragging Henry closer to him, and Henry hushed him softly as he stepped closer, closed his eyes as he felt Essex’s head fall against his chest, his fingers interlinking with both of Henry’s own hands.

“Are you well?” Henry asked, dropping to a crouch, and he looked now at Essex’s face, at the slackness in his jaw, the close of his heavy-lidded eyes.

“Better than I imagined,” Essex managed to say, and Henry was stunned, knew not what he might say to that. Than he had imagined? That Essex had _imagined_? Essex lolled back in his seat, humming out a low noise, and dragged to his mouth one of Henry’s hands, clumsily pressing his lips to the back of it. His mouth was hot, his lips soft, and Henry’s head spun with it. “I wanted…”

“You wanted?” Henry prompted when Essex trailed off, and Essex fell forward again, tipping his head into the crook of Henry’s shoulder, and Henry put his arms about him, curving one arm about Essex’s waist, and he curled his hand anew in Essex’s hair. He couldn’t help but _enjoy_ Essex like this, desperate to cling to him, and even now the taste of Essex’s blood still lingering in his tongue, the coppery tang, settled satisfaction deep within him, and he turned his face into Essex’s, inhaling deeply.

“I would stay here ‘til came the end of time,” Essex mumbled into the crook of Henry’s shoulder, and Henry closed his eyes, feeling the weight and heat of Essex against him, the grip of his arms, listening now to the soft beat of his heart.

“Would you?” Henry asked. “Far be it from me to argue.”

Essex laughed drunkenly, and was comfortably limp and languid in Henry’s arms. Henry did not know for how long he settled there, with Essex thus held in his arms, but it was long after Essex fell asleep.

**THEOPHILUS**

Later, Theophilus lay in his own bed, with Mr Coffey settled in the chair beside him. Somehow, it felt rather impossibly intimate, despite the fact that Mr Coffey had spent some weeks seated beside his bed as passed the days when he was laid up with his ankle, let alone the position he had been in but a few hours before, Mr Coffey’s teeth sunk into the flesh of his neck, a heat between his legs. He still felt groggy and somewhat unsteady on his feet, although it had been some six or seven hours since the bite, but the pleasure lingered, too: his body ached in the satisfying, pleasurable way that one’s body did after exercise, and he scarcely wished ever to move again.

“I am sorry,” Mr Coffey said.

“Why?” Theophilus asked, and Mr Coffey frowned at him, gesturing to where Theophilus was absently stroking his fingers over the dark, purple bruising Mr Coffey had left at the very base of his neck where was the juncture of his shoulder, feeling the soft ache as he pressed on the flesh. “Oh,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

Mr Coffey looked very well, now: his skin had retained its ordinary golden glow, the bags mostly smoothed away from beneath his eyes, and although he looked somewhat tired, he did not look so unwell as he had before, and there was a sense of satisfaction in that, a bone-deep pleasure at having wrought, with only his blood, a healthy aura in Mr Coffey.

There was a shame in him, a cool ache in the base of his belly that was hard to concentrate on with the pleasurable fuzz still rippling through his veins, but one he knew he might feel more keenly later on, when that euphoria faded, and Mr Coffey was gone.

“You said you did not wish to be a vampire,” Theophilus said softly. Mr Coffey had set only one candle upon Theophilus’ desk, and drawn the shutters so that the room was quite dark, although there was wan light still outside.

“I did not,” Mr Coffey said quietly. “I had a fiancée, once, I told you this. We were affianced from when we were still in our swaddling clothes – it was to be a marriage for the sake of advancing each of our family’s properties. All my brothers had died by the time I was sixteen, so I was the only one who would advance my family’s line.”

Mr Coffey had pressed Theophilus to drink some iron-rich potion, the better to replenish the lost blood, but he had insisted upon bringing up a teakettle of cocoa, and now he poured some more for Theophilus, pressing the mug into his hands, which obediently, he took.

“Her name was Hawise Ashdown. She was a very strong and powerful woman – a swordswoman, a natural commander. She had great plans for our marriage, for what would come of it, and she came at the age of sixteen to England from across the English channel, that we should marry.”

“You did not wish to?”

“I did not. I had no wish to marry, least of all to marry a woman I had never met face-to-face – I had seen her portrait, and she had seen mine, and that was all. I knew her to be a woman ambitious, that she had high expectations, and that appealed least of all – I did not wish to take up great swathes of land and make of myself a lord paramount, which is what she dreamed of. In Hawise’s dreams for our future together, we would command over hundreds upon hundreds of serfs, and keep them tightly controlled therein – whilst having children of our own to carry our blood-soaked empire.”

“You refused?”

Mr Coffey laughed, bitterly, and shook his head, sipping from his own mug of cocoa. “No, Essex, I did not. I fled. I took whatever work I could, labourer’s work, here and there, and that I knew my letters appealed to some who needed it. I was an adequate bard, once I was twenty or so, playing the harp, and though my voice was no nightingale’s lullaby, I did sing from time-to-time, as well as playing music. I did anything I could to earn food and raiment, in short.

“I would not spend longer than a week or so in whatever town or village I came upon, and moved one way and then the other, never remaining in one place.” Mr Coffey spoke very solemnly, quietly, and Theophilus cupped his hands neatly around his bowl, feeling the warmth within it, and he watched Mr Coffey’s face, the distant melancholy in it. “But Hawise was rather single-minded. She had no wish for another husband – my name was Hereward la Cofrer, in those days, and my family was quite rich, had some great patches of land already, orchards and the like. I spent two decades fleeing the woman who would be my wife.”

“She caught you, then?”

“She did. I had evaded her eighteen years before she caught up with me, and declared I should marry her.”

Mr Coffey took a small sip from his bowl, and then let it sink down upon his knees. In his eyes, it seemed to Theophilus that he could see a world of old agony, and he wondered in these past months how many times Mr Coffey’s melancholia of a moment had been prompted by memories of his youth. Eighteen years seemed an unthinkable time to be ever moving, ever fleeing one’s pursuer.

“I refused,” Mr Coffey said. “I… I cannot say I ever really asked, for I don’t believe I ever exchanged more than a handful of words with Hawise, in all the centuries we shared upon this earth. But she came from a family of vampires, had planned to draw me into her bloodline, and she was patient. She set upon me, forced her cut wrist against my mouth even as she set her teeth into my neck – so strong as she was, I had no hope of resistance.

“And with that, I was as she was: near immortal, unaging, with a thirst that frightened me, a newly settled terror of the sun. I think perhaps she thought that if she waited long enough, I would relent, and marry her. There were scarcely any vampires in England, in that time, and there was no community I might go to, I expect she thought, but for her. I was very lucky, for another such gentleman as I came upon me at my weakest, and he and his servant appointed themselves my tutors. Without them I would surely have died, or been driven mad by my hunger.”

Mr Coffey swallowed, and Theophilus was struck in the moment by how very handsome he looked in the low light, illuminated by the glow of the single candle between them, highlighting the golden tones in his skin, and the pinkness of his lips.

“You did not marry her,” Theophilus whispered.

“I did not,” said Mr Coffey. “There came, some fifty years after she had turned my blood to match hers, the Black Death. You cannot imagine, Essex, the horror that came of those years – I had heard of plague before, but none had ever compared to that sea of agonies. Bodies piled high in the streets, children orphaned if not dead or dying, and such a pestilence – and all through that, there were those lords and ladies who would keep their subjects so indebted to them that they had no hope of freedom, ever toiling, ever hungry, ever more plague-ridden. I don’t know how much you know of that period – there came the plague, the many wars, and Wat Tyler’s rebellion, that is to say, the peasants’ great revolt. Hawise had thought nobles would retain their tight grip upon their victims for centuries longer, and she was wrong.

“Before all that, I pieced apart what land my family had had, gave it to those that actually worked it, but for a place for me to build my own home and live there for some duration. I lived there,ah, some fifty years or so, until came the plague, and I worked alongside a magical pellar, then. I was no surgeon, but the pestilence that ailed so many could do no harm to me, and even though I could not cure their ills, I could still offer palliatives, with magic or balm.”

Mr Coffey turned his head away a moment, dragging his thumb over the corner of his eye, and he shook his head, exhaling audibly: Theophilus did not believe he imagined the soft catch of the breath in his throat.

“There have been other plagues of course – great and small. I could not— I could not bear to be a surgeon, as I ought perhaps have trained to be, for it so wounded me to be amongst the dead and dying. I pursued other professions – I ran a boarding house for some time, offered beds for weary travellers, fed them; I worked upon an orchard; I took tutelage from a stonemason, a tailor… I worked in a tannery, although not for very long, as the smell was far too overwhelming. I don’t know what I shall do, after I leave our little publication behind, but something different, I am sure.”

Theophilus drank from his bowl, and he looked at Mr Coffey for a long, long moment before he asked, in a very quiet voice, “I note you have made use of the past tense, when describing Hawise Ashdown.”

“The year Charles I was executed,” Mr Coffey said. “Hawise took men and women alike into a sort of cult of personality, rather used the opiate nature of her venom to string them along. She did not think well upon the lives of peasants, did not care greatly that her drinking from them repeatedly should leave them so prone to illness, so weak, and she did leave deaths behind her. She was burnt as a witch in Stowmarket that year.”

There was a strange steel in Mr Coffey’s voice, now, a hardness.

“You were there?”

“I was,” he said. “I travelled for the occasion, rode three days, so that when I finally stumbled from my horse in Stowmarket, I had bruises upon my thighs, and stumbled when I walked. I stood at the very front of the crowd to watch, beneath my broad hat, wearing dark lenses o’er my eyes. I made sure she saw me. I wanted her to see me. I stood close enough that she could see her own reflection in the spectacles I wore.” Mr Coffey was sitting very still, his mouth twisted, and his fingers tapped against the edge of the bowl in his hands. “She did not scream, you know. Even as they bound her in place, her skin had blistered very badly from the light of the sun, but she retained a sort of grave solemnity, even as she burned. She did not scream, did not even cry out. I’m sure she thought of herself as some vampiric Jeanne d’Arc.

“I have never hated anybody, Mr Essex. I have ever found myself with a preponderance of empathy for others – I suppose I thought in going to watch her die, I should hate her, and even then, I didn’t. I had to fight my instincts to keep from dragging her from the pyre, and rather hated myself afterward for resisting the urge.”

“I’m sorry,” Theophilus said quietly. There was a tired ache in his chest, a weight that he could do nothing with, that anybody should so take ownership over the lives of others, and for a moment he spared a thought for Mr Greenwich, and imagined him functionally immortal, for the longest period, undying.

He felt ill at the prospect.

“You are not a cad, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus said quietly. “Nor a coward. In your position, I cannot rightly say I would have done as you might have – I would have done so much less.”

“You ought sleep,” said Mr Coffey. “You need more rest.”

“Will you stay?” Theophilus asked, embarrassed at how quickly the question tumbled from his mouth, but Mr Coffey laughed softly, and nodded as he smiled.

“I’ll stay,” he said softly. “I have never told anybody that story in its entirety, you know.”

“No one has ever told me anything the way you have, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus replied. He meant to say more, to say something more impactful, perhaps, more emotive, but the fatigue was heavy within him, and he was very tired. “I do trust you, you know.”

“I know,” Henry said.

“I do not mean to hide myself off from you.”

“I don’t believe you do.”

“I find it— difficult. To express things as beautifully as you do.”

“Mr Essex—”

“Take the chest from beneath my bed,” Theophilus said, and it was impulsive, he knew, a burn of sudden, too-quick thought from his tongue, and Mr Coffey stared at him, his head tilting in confusion, but he leaned and took by the leather loop the wooden box there, wherein Theophilus kept his sketches.

“Mr Essex—”

“I’m very tired, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus murmured, setting the bowl of cocoa now drained upon the desk surface, and shifting down in the bed to lie with his cheek against the pillow. “I must sleep.”

“Sleep as you will,” Mr Coffey murmured. “I shall be here when you wake.”

“A happy Christmas to you, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus murmured, and Mr Coffey’s rich laughter sang in his ears as he closed his eyes.

“A happy Christmas to you as well,” he said, and Theophilus allowed himself to drift.


	13. Chapter 13

**HENRY**

For nearly an hour, he thought, he watched Mr Essex sleep, and did not draw open the small chest Mr Essex had indicated. Looking at its wooden surface, he scarcely dared to – he had seen it, when Mr Essex had been his guest, a glimpse beneath his bed or closed beside his desk, but he had never seen within it, never so much as seen it open whilst he was in the room, and he couldn’t bear the idea that Mr Essex should wake and regret granting Henry the permission to delve within.

He ached with the need to know, to know whatever it was that Mr Essex kept so very discrete, but it was the idea of Mr Essex’s face upon waking that dissuaded him, the idea that Mr Essex should look at him with fear or uncertainty or, worst of all, betrayal. Mr Essex had been quite affected by Henry’s venom, for he had fallen over himself for some time, and even now he had seemed giddy and easier to smile than was ordinary, still drunk from it.

Henry’s fingers _itched_.

In the darkness, Mr Essex’s face was a vision of peace, or at least, as close to peace as Mr Essex got to: a slight furrow remained between his brows, and even in his sleep, he subtly frowned, and the mere sight of his face now, so lit as it was by the barest slivers of light that forced their way in through the edges of the blind, he was overcome with emotion.

He had not lied to Essex a moment before – he had rarely spoken of Hawise if it might be avoided, and indeed, did his best not to think about her. That time, so many years ago, he well-recalled – recalled it all the more vividly in such times as these, when he ate little and went without what was so rightly called lifeblood – although the memories were unhappy ones.

She had left him in the depths of a wood, where the thick canopy would protect him from the sun ‘til he woke, and he remembered how quickly his skin had blistered when he tried to step from beneath the natural shelter of that viridian parasol, the agonising pain that dug beneath the skin as so many blades, and the steaming, crackling skin that followed—

So many weeks as he had remained in those woods, dreading the winter that would come, finding himself faster and stronger, and yet hungering in a way he never had before. He had been quite certain he would die, wandering those cursed woods from end to end, finding not the fatigue he ordinarily would in his thighs or his calves, and instead of the dizziness that ordinarily followed hunger, he became more manic instead, everything seeming to be lit from within by a bright light, every sound in the forest so loud as to cut at him.

Every creature within that wood had seemed to be the loudest thing imaginable, every bird a squawking explosion of sound and heat and flapping wings, every mouse a squealing beast in the undergrowth; every rabbit’s paw upon the ground an insufferable, cacophonous scratching of the earth, deafening in its volume. 

What relief he had found when first he had grasped hold of a passing hare and sunk his teeth into its still livid flesh, listened to the scream it made and found himself unable to stop, for he needed, _needed_ ….

He had no idea how many days, how many weeks, he had spent in those woods before a cart had come through as dusk had given way to the darkness of night, and he had stumbled, feral as a dog, before its horses, made them rear and scream their horror.

How must he have looked, bloodied from his chin to his breast, his blouse crusted with dried blood and crusted dirt, his breeches stained with grass? And that was with no consideration of the stench of the wild garlic, which had just come into bloom, which had burned in his nostrils, so painfully strong as it was, and even now seemed to follow him like an omen.

It had been a small coach, but unlike anything he had ever before seen in those days, made of a dark wood with a heavy panel roof, heavy wood sides, and blinds made of heavy black leather, with not the open sides he had only ever seen upon a cart in those times.

The coachman, a plum-faced, frowning man, had stared at him even as he soothed his horses, and knocked his knuckles against the wood of the coach, and Henry well-remembered even now the silence of the coach door’s hinge as it had neatly open, but no one had stepped out from it, and nor has any sound come from within.

He could hear the coachman’s heartbeat, at that time, hear the quiet, regular pound of it in his great chest, and thought to himself that it was merely madness, the same desperate hunger or illness that made him drink from hares and rabbits, bite raw their flesh and swallow it fur and all.

“Go on, then,” the coachman had said. “In you get.”

He could hear naught from within the coach, no sound of beating heart, no livid flesh, naught: the beats of the horse’s hearts were so loud as deafening, the coachman’s heart a syncopated addition, but from within…

The inside of the coach was completely dark, a pitch-black emptiness, and from within still came no sound whatsoever, only the darkness, only the blackness, and yet hungry, desperate, fevered as he was, Henry had stepped up within it, and closed the door behind him.

A voice spoke, in graceful Italian, and Henry had been able to stammer out a response, a negative, for he scarcely knew the tongue; another voice, this one pitched lower, more serious in tone, and then a hand had been on his cheek, a hand so very, very cold – and yet not so much colder than Henry himself.

“My poor child,” had said that first man, his thumb sliding over Henry’s cheek. “Who did this to you?”

“Hawise,” he had managed to say.

The second man, the serious one, said something more in Italian, something sharp, angry.

“I don’t disagree with you, Marcellus,” had said the first. “But for now, our poor dear friend is newly born, and knows not his way. Here, my young friend – what is your name?”

“Hereward.”

“Hereward,” whispered the man who was not Marcellus, and into Henry’s hand had been pressed a clay jar, corked at its top, but when the cork had been drawn free with a quiet _pop_ of sound, Henry’s very awareness of the world had clouded over: he drank desperately, as a creature mad with hunger, guzzled every drop of coppery liquid within the jar, with it parched his aching throat, and the coach had been silent again.

The coach began to rumble forward again, and only in finishing the jar’s contents, tonguing greedily at its inner walls, had Henry reconsidered the iron-strong taste upon his tongue, recognised it, and began to sob.

“Oh, my poor, dear thing,” had said the other man beside him – the other vampire, he would come to know – and slid a great arm about his, an arm that was cold to the touch and hard, and drawn Henry’s head to his breast. Beneath Henry’s ear, he was aware, now, he realised the heart in his great chest was not so silent as he would have thought: very slowly, it beat, and sounded as no heartbeat he could ever have imagined before. “Marcellus and I shall show you the way.”

“Why has she done this to me?” Henry had begged of them, and even then, Genesius had given him no answer, had merely softly clucked his tongue and hushed him, stroked his back until he had fallen fitfully asleep in his lap.

Smoothing out his breeches, his hands making absent movements over his knees, he thought distantly of those days, of Marcellus and Genesius, teaching him his way to drink without harm those that fed him, ensuring his teeth his did not press too deeply, ensuring he made no hard tear of muscle or ligament and, in such an event that he did, ensuring he could repair it. He had refused for some weeks at first to drink from anybody, certain he would drain them of all the blood they had, but it was difficult indeed to gorge upon all the lifeblood in one body, and even if one tried, they would surely become quite ill in the aftermath, laden down with more iron than the disease drawn within their bodies could digest.

Genesius liked very little to drink directly from his source, anyway, and Henry still thought it was remarkable, the way that he would so easily convince whatever party guests he had – for Genesius ever and always had others within his home, and loved very well a party – to assent to it. Whether his guests knew Genesius and Marcellus to be immortals or not, Genesius would begin some rousing conversation on the subject of bloodletting, and how in Ancient Egypt, the wisest of priests would observe the sweating hippopotamus, and think him to be sweating his blood.

“But I know so little of the ancient art – as ever, between us, Marcellus is the expert.”

And Marcellus would smile, and bow his head in his humility, say: “I know naught of the land of Egypt, as well you know, but I know the ways of the Greeks and Romans, and the way in which bloodletting would repair imbalance in a man’s four humours.”

“Marcellus can even _practice_ the art, just as Hippocrates did,” would say Genesius to his nearest companion, with the air of one vouchsafing some curious secret, and with but a few more minutes of this theatre, their friends would be clamouring to try it, and see how it had felt to the patients of that most ancient doctor.

“You’ve a duty to those from whom you feed,” Marcellus would say to him seriously as he showed Henry the motions and ingredients that went into the iron-replenishing potion he would insist anyone drank upon such bloodletting. “They are not cattle, not to be treated as but receptacles for their blood: they are doing us a kindness, whether they know it or not, and you ought be as grateful to them as you would anyone that fed you when you were hungry, and gave you shelter when you were afraid. Take only that which you require, and do no knowing harm.”

Marcellus measured the blood so carefully – he would separate it into complicated jars, each enough for a portion (somewhat less than a glass of wine, for they would take a measure each twice per day), enchanted that the blood should remain warm and preserved, and kept keen inventory of his stock, so that they were never in danger of running out.

Little and often was best, Genesius would say as to their appetites, and then laugh; ever and always, when he pouted that Henry did not smile (for this had not struck him as a joke the first time, let alone the second or twentieth he heard it), he would look to Marcellus, who would always give him the sweetest of affectionate smiles as his reward.

He had not considered Genesius and Marcellus in quite some time – last he had heard of them some decades past, not since he had still been living in Dover rather than Birmingham, they had moved north to Runswick Bay, but even then, they had been planning to return to Egypt when the possibility arose. He would send word to Runswick, in any case – he would not be in Birmingham another year, and failing all else, he would know for certain if those certain friends of his were to be contacted.

In his sleep, Essex shifted, turning onto his side, and watching him shift beneath the heavy weight of his blanket, Henry couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like to slip beneath it and curl beside him, to bury his face in the back of Essex’s neck, to feel the soft curl of his hair against his cheek, his brow; to curl one arm about Essex’s waist and feel the exquisite heat he radiated; most of all, to hear the steady beat of his heart, and let the sound of it soothe him.

For some few hours, Essex had held Henry tightly against him, slumped as he was in the chair, and Henry had remained upon his knees there, Essex wrapped up in him, his nose buried in the curls of Essex’s hair and basking in the wondrous heat of Essex’s body, the wonder that he should be so entirely buried in this opium sleep and want for Henry to hold him.

He had summoned for his coach to bring Essex home, and carried him quickly up the stairs to his boarding house, and luckily, Mr and Mrs Quays had not been home to raise query or question as to Mr Essex’s employer bringing him home so deep in his cups when the hour was not yet twelve.

Essex’s hand had fallen over the edge of the bed, and Henry looked at it, at the fine, easy lines of his graceful, artist’s fingers and the rich colour of his skin. Standing to his feet, he carefully took from the end of the bed one of Essex’s additional blankets, and set it on the ground beside Essex’s bed, pushing back the secret chest with his foot, and settled in the small gap between Essex’s desk and the edge of his bed, his shoulders against the wall.

Taking down the ribbon from his hair, he leaned his head against the wall: like so, his knees loosely drawn up toward his chest, his head leaned back, he was in line with Essex’s head upon the pillow, could see the thin shape of his lashes, even in the dim light.

Reaching delicately, so as not to wake him, he put his hand in Essex’s own, interlinking their fingers, and closed his own eyes as he felt the warmth of Essex’s skin, felt the regular beat of his heart, so faintly communicated as it was to his fingers, but not as faintly as not to be a drumbeat in Henry’s estimation.

Resting the back of his wrist upon his knees, so as not to uncomfortably pull Essex’s hand down and away from the bed, he laid his other hand upon his belly, and relaxed in his place. As a human, this position would have caused him no end of aching, but with his flesh so stiff as it was, there was no strain upon his muscles, no more than he would find in any other relaxed position.

He did not really mean to sleep there, but sleep he did.

* * *

**THEOPHILUS**

When Theophilus woke, it was to the sound of Henry moving about the room and drawing open the curtains, for it was dark outside the window. Groggily, Theophilus stirred, bringing to his other hand the one that had fallen from beneath his coverlet, which was cold despite the warmth of the room, and he rubbed at it idly, before reaching up and rubbing at his own eyes.

“You need to eat,” said Mr Coffey, and when Theophilus raised himself up against the pillows, leaning back against his bed’s headboard, Mr Coffey laid a tray gently in his lap. Theophilus drank from the coffee upon it before touching the rest, and this prompted Mr Coffey to laugh.

“What is it that strikes you with such humour?” asked Theophilus, the confusion of sleep still lingering with him, and Mr Coffey looked at him with affection.

“You are a Greek through and through, my friend,” said he. “That is all.”

“Says the Frenchman,” Theophilus said. “I can smell the sweetness of your cocoa from here.”

Mr Coffey laughed, the sound soft and merry, and toasted him before he drank from his bowl. Theophilus looked to his plate, beginning to pick at small pieces from it – it was cold cuts and smoked fish, some varied cheeses and bread from which he ate, and he chewed it carefully. Before he had put him into his bed, Mr Coffey had insisted Theophilus drink from some bitter potion, the better to ameliorate his blood’s regeneration, and he was pleased indeed to see no more of it.

His chest rested just slightly beneath the bed, its lid settled upon his top, “Did you open it?” he asked quietly.

“I did not,” Mr Coffey said after but a moment’s pause. “You will forgive me, Mr Essex, but there is little pleasure to be found in rifling through a man’s things whilst he sleeps beside you, no matter that he has given his permission.”

Theophilus turned his head back to his meal, concentrating on the taste, the texture of the bread under his tongue, and said nothing for quite some time, but Mr Coffey made no complaint, and instead seated himself back in his chair with his cocoa and his own meal.

"Are you upset it didn't snow?" asked Mr Coffey.

"No, sir," Theophilus said. "I do not care for the snow."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Mr Essex," said Mr Coffey, in a mild, warm tone, "I have often observed your tendency to look quite dreamily out of the window, upon the occasion of a heavy rain. Do you mean to tell me you look so well upon that precipitation, but another renders in you a strong dislike? It is all water falling from the sky, is it not?"

Theophilus considered this line of questioning for but a moment, and then said, with an air of quiet - but grave - declaration, "I do not believe I have ever looked dreamily upon anything, Mr Coffey."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"As you say, Essex."

They ate in quiet for some while longer, and even when their plates were clear, and neatly set upon the edge of Theophilus' desk, the silence between them lingered. It was not an uncomfortable silence, for Theophilus ever found any silence companionable, and silence in Mr Coffey's presence was particularly companionable indeed, but there was a tension in it.

It was not unlike the tension that came before a good rain.

"Would you assent to my examining this chest's contents with your supervision?"

"I should be ashamed indeed, sir."

"Ashamed?" Mr Coffey repeated, in a tone of some concern, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, his hands resting in one another's gasp, and Theophilus wished he could put his own hand into that mix, and feel Mr Coffey's hands against his own.

"Yes, sir."

"I would not shame you if I might avoid it."

"And if I deserve it?"

"Mr Essex, I know you to be named for a monk," Mr Coffey said mildly, "but that does not mean I want to see you whipped for some self-perceived sin."

"As though you would whip me."

"Your expression would imply you are worried I might."

"There are worse things that flagellation."

"Shame, for example."

"Yes."

With one foot, Mr Coffey gently pushed the chest further beneath the bed, and said softly, “I cannot cure you of my shame, my friend, but I can do as I can not to add to the burden. I shall have enough heartache to come, and would not add to it.”

Theophilus looked down at his lap. “Mrs Woodbury?”

“She declared to me she would be dead before the year came to its close – I fear she is quite right, for she is in a bad way indeed. She is an old woman, it is true, but there never ends the pang of grief in those one cares for, no matter how many of them there have been.

“But— Ah. My time in Birmingham comes to its close, and I shall make arrangements for the others in my household that would not travel with me when comes the new year.”

“A close?” Theophilus repeated, feeling his stomach lurch in his belly, and Mr Coffey gave a solemn nod of his head.

“Over forty years I have lived in this house,” Henry murmurs. “I have been doing my publishing work for nearly twenty years, now – my friends are, of course, very polite, but a gentleman unageing can only cite certain creams and powders for such a time before his compatriots become suspicious.”

“Where will we go?”

Mr Coffey was quiet for a long moment, looking aside, and then he looked back to Theophilus, meeting his gaze. “We,” he repeated. “Mr Essex, I fear… I would not have you feel beholden to me.”

“Beholden?” Theophilus repeated. “You think you hold me in bondage? I travelled some way to Birmingham to be your clerk, sir: moving elsewhere should bother me none, if it should be as your clerk.”

“How far?”

“How far?”

“If I do not remain in England, if I go farther afield – were I to sail elsewhere.”

Theophilus, without meaning to, began to laugh. It was a soft sound, quiet and low, and perhaps it ought have embarrassed him, but he was as yet tired, and he lay back upon his pillows even as Mr Coffey shot at him an expression most quizzical.

“I made a joke?” he asked.

“You know me to be afeared of sailing,” Theophilus murmured. “And for whatever reason, find yourself convinced I have no true desire to be your secretary – that these two points should be raised in such succession does not strike me as a matter of coincidence.”

“You think I would leave England simply to leave you?”

“It wouldn’t work,” Theophilus said. “If I must step upon a ship’s deck to remain in your service, I will do so.”

“What have I done to prompt such loyalty?”

“Nothing in particular,” Theophilus said. “That no prompt has been given is perhaps why my loyalty is so assured.”

Mr Coffey was looking at him very gravely, but now he inhaled, and then sighed. “You need make no decision now. I know not yet where I shall go to – nor, indeed, _what_ I shall do when I get there.”

“You don’t wish to continue your work in publishing?”

“I don’t know,” Mr Coffey said. “I think I should like— I do not know. I think I might do nothing, for a little while.”

Theophilus thought of nothing, as it applied to him and Mr Coffey, thought of quiet moments sat beside the fire, conversations about nothing at all. “That sounds very pleasant indeed, sir,” he said softly, and Mr Coffey smiled at him. Wishing to settle more beneath the rich sound of Mr Coffey’s voice, he said, softly, “Two men, you said.”

“I did?”

“A gentleman and his servant,” Theophilus prompted.

“Ah,” Mr Coffey murmured, and laughed quietly. “I was thinking of them as you slept. Genesius and Marcellus.”

“Roman names.”

“Roman men. Marcellus, at least, is – Servius Marcellus Egnatuleia. Genesius is an Egyptian, and that is not the same he was bestowed upon his birth, but I could not tell you what name he was.”

“He keeps it secret?”

“Certainly not, no, he has told it to me once or twice, but it is an Egyptian name, and every long, one around which I could never quite wrap my tongue around – and without being able to say it, I find I cannot readily recollect it. They are ancient beyond measure, compared to the likes of men such as I, but their ken is not a common one – few vampires live so long as they do, and fewer still wish to.”

“How old?”

“He studied medicine in the time of Hippocrates II,” Mr Coffey said. “So two thousand, at the least. Genesius is a good while older – I believe I have once heard Genesius tease Marcellus of some eight centuries creating their separation, but I have never asked precisely.”

To live to so awesome an age was a consideration unfathomable, and Theophilus spent some moments digesting it, sipping at his coffee.

After some time had passed – for Mr Coffey often noted these moments when they so arose, and would give Theophilus his time to contemplate before ploughing onward – his employer shifted in his seat, and said, “They came upon me in the wood that Hawise had abandoned me in, some dismal place in Nottingham – not Sherwood Forest, but a smaller wood that I believe is now since gone. I was lucky indeed that the two of them passed through when they did, and they taught me all I know about the vampiric condition – I have plans to write to them if they are where they were last.”

Mr Coffey looked very pensive, his handsome brow furrowed in concentration, and he inched forward his chair, that he should be somewhat closer to Theophilus. “You know… Mr Essex.”

“Mr Coffey.”

“There is a society of vampires,” Mr Coffey said quietly. “A contentious lot to be certain, but a, ah… They perform a census, as best they can. Marcellus sent off my name for their records, that if ever I wished to exact justice upon Hawise, that I might do so – I don’t know the particulars, but it is certainly a crime across the vampiric diaspora to turn someone against their will, let alone to do so without warning, and to offer them no guidance.”

“You wish to do this now?” Theophilus asked, and Mr Coffey shook his head.

“No, no, but I… I have oft-avoided my fellow vampire,” Mr Coffey murmured. “I wonder if I might help him instead of pretend he does not exist.”

Theophilus nodded his head, and felt himself slightly smile, for it seemed to be very like Henry Coffey to say such a thing, and although he felt tired and anxious, Mr Coffey’s mere presence was a balm beyond measure.

“How did they come upon you? Through luck alone?”

“Luck alone.”

“What happened?”

“You will look on me very ill.”

“Never, sir.”

“How you say such things, Mr Essex,” Mr Coffey whispered. “And so easily. What have I done, to deserve the loyalty of one so very noble?”

“I am not noble, sir,” Theophilus murmured. “But I should pledge my service to nobility as best I might.”

“I tried to leave the wood as rose the dawning sun, but my skin bubbled beneath it. There was I: trapped.”

As Mr Coffey went on, Theophilus listened very carefully, and ached. It was a non-specific ache, a general ache of wanting, of yearning, for a man beyond one’s attainment, and yet, he was certain that it was a man – this man, yes, but _a_ man.

“I do dream,” Theophilus said, after Mr Coffey had told him his story.

“You do,” Mr Coffey murmured.

“I dream of men,” Theophilus said quietly. “Faceless, ordinarily, but undeniably masculine – never in my life have I understood the allure of women, and yet it seemed so… Men in the navy get lashes if they are caught at such things, but some of them are sentenced to execution, in the case of sodomy. My brothers thought it to be a very odious thing indeed, a scourge upon the sailing population – they have oft voiced the opinion in my presence in the way one might opine that there is a great deal of cloud in the sky today. Casually, so very casually there seems to be no room for retort.”

Suddenly leaning forward, Mr Coffey opened his mouth as though to interject, his bright eyes wide, his lips parted, but he quickly reconsidered, and clamped shut his mouth again. “Please,” he said, after a moment. “Go on.”

“It seemed to me that such things were better confined to the land of dreams,” Theophilus murmured. “So regularly I saw gentlemen such as that pilloried, or humiliated in the pages of the press, and Mr Greenwich had said to me in one rant or another, many a time, that he thought…” Theophilus trailed off, finding himself not quite ready to speak again on Mr Greenwich whilst sobriety ailed his tongue, and so he said, “I rather thought it to be a sin I should carry to my grave. Desires upon which I would never act. But I think— I think perhaps I should like to act upon them. I should not like to live my life untouched by love, Mr Coffey.”

“Mr Essex,” said he, the green pieces in his eyes seeming to shine with pure sincerity, “you could never.” Theophilus broke Mr Coffey’s gaze, looking to his lap instead, and it was then that Mr Coffey asked, in a tone quite soft, and very gentle, “Is it this predilection of yours that shames you? Is it that which is contained in this box?”

Theophilus thought of the thousand and one sketches he had drawn of one Henry Coffey, of his mouth, his graceful fingers, his lovely eyes; of Mr Coffey drinking, laughing, singing; of Mr Coffey sliding his teeth into the necks and thighs and wrists of faceless young men with scars in their lips.

“Not precisely,” Theophilus whispered.

“Then we shall speak no more about it,” Mr Coffey promised him. “Do you have many opinions on shoes, Mr Essex?”

“No.”

“I do.”

Theophilus laughed, the sound shocked from him, and tilted his head back upon the pillow, looking to Mr Coffey with the sense of the most tremendous indulgence settling within him. “Yes?”

“Oh, yes. For example, any man with a block heel higher than three inches ought be hanged.”

“I’m listening,” Theophilus murmured, and felt himself relax as Mr Coffey threw himself with some enthusiasm into the nonsense rant of the moment.


	14. Chapter 14

**HENRY**

Hanna was buried on a drizzly Thursday, where the sun shone wanly through the falling rain and left the skies painted in the colours of the rainbow. Lucy Haverly had sent a letter back to her mother a week or so back declaring how well she was settling in at school, and when Henry had quietly spoken to her, Mrs Haverly had said she would likely move down to London rather than go elsewhere with Henry.

Isaac had left to look after his brothers, and although Matthew would stay with the household for the time being, he would move to look after his mother and his sisters rather than move abroad with Henry wherever they went next.

Ambrose Junior would join them. Ambrose Senior had declared that he wouldn’t.

He had sent a letter up to Brunswick Bay, but no reply had yet returned, and in these past weeks he had somewhat wound down their publishing work. He was not yet certain what should be done with their work, if he would pass it onto others, and in the meantime—

Mr Essex seemed happier, of late.

It was not to say Mr Essex’s affect had relaxed very noticeably in these past weeks, no more than it had subtly relaxed in all the time he and Henry had spent in one another’s presence. Mr Essex was a strait-laced young gentleman, and that was his nature, but he did, Henry thought, smile more. These smiles were never wide or excessively toothy, but in such a time as they were alone together, in the office or whilst promenading, Mr Essex’s lips would shift into little quirked crescents, and occasionally, he would softly laugh – not irregularly, he would laugh openly, although never where anyone else might see them.

It seemed to Henry – though these things were indeed difficult to judge – that a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. There scarce passed a moment where he did not consider the way in which Mr Essex had spoken to him on the subject of his inclinations – so frankly, so _openly_ , so plainly, when frank speak was precisely that which Mr Essex most struggled with.

He had wanted to tell him.

He had wanted to speak frankly, easily: he had wanted to tell Mr Essex precisely the way in which he had felt as a young man, fumbling with stable boys and servants, never knowing how he was supposed to marry any young woman, when their appeal was so unthinkable, when he so entirely lacked the inclination toward the sex. And yet, how could he do such a thing? How could he respond to an admission from Essex with an admission of his own, and not have it read as some manner of invitation, or worse, of pressure?

Mr Dufresne had invited Essex down to London when the winter’s frost had thawed.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Joseph.

It was late in the evening, and the two of them were settled in a coffeehouse together, settled close by to the fire. Paperwork was an object of distant consideration, for wherever it was he went, Henry planned to transfer at least some of his property to Joseph, no matter that Joseph had protested.

“Oh?”

“About blood.”

“I think about blood too – I think, perhaps, in different contexts.”

“In this case, no,” said Joseph, and Henry raised his eyebrows.

The coffeehouse was busy, condensation lingering on the windows for the heat in the room so contrasted the cold of the night outside, and they had been speaking for some time on idle matters – Gráinne was some months pregnant, a surprise to say the least, and for some time Joseph had enthused about it, had shown such impossible delight that Henry’s cheeks felt they ached from smiling, and he would hardly complain.

Gráinne was a potioneer of some renown, and in confining herself primarily to the household had focused herself upon the brewing and creation of various balms and poultices, and Joseph was learning more of the art than he had before.

“Do you know Miss Dubelle well?

“Katherine Dubelle? I know her in the passing – I gave her the name of the blacksmith that makes my dark glasses in exchange for the name of the gentleman who makes her parasols when first I came to Birmingham. They’re reinforced, you know.”

Joseph laughed softly, and Henry smiled. He had never felt entirely comfortable with most other vampires – he knew there to be larger groups of them in London, in community with one another, but he ordinarily only ever met other vampires as individuals, and did his best not to engage with them too closely. Perhaps it was an unnecessary prejudice of his, when in the half dozen or so vampires he had met other than Hawise had been perfectly kind – perhaps…

“I knew only a little about potions before I met Gráinne,” Joseph said quietly. “All the education my mother gave me was in practical sorcery – I knew enough for basic balms and medicines, but that was rather all. I mentioned to her the potion you brew for the sake of improving iron replenishment, and she’s been— Well. It’s turned into something of a project of some passion.”

“Passion?” Henry repeated, curious, and he felt his head tilt to the side as he met Joseph’s gaze, and Joseph nodded his head. “She has made improvements on it, I take it?”

Joseph laughed, shaking his head. “She… tried. She was certain when she first examined the ingredients that with the addition of moon salt as a catalyst she might be able to improve the potion’s efficacy, and therefore concentrate it somewhat, but it made no notable difference. The potion is very tightly brewed and designed.”

“Marcellus was a consummate physician in his youth, and I believe him to be quite competent with potioneering – in this arena, at least.”

“Well,” Joseph said, “that’s— that’s rather the thing. The potion in question is intended to combat anaemia, is it not – to encourage the body’s replenishment of its own iron stores?”

“I could make no claim to understand the precise science of it,” Henry said, “for I know of the body’s physiology, but not every small element to the creation of potions, but yes, that’s rather it. The body might regenerate blood itself, but iron in the form it takes in blood takes longer to reform – one can taste the difference in the blood. Or, one such as I might.”

“That is to say, the potion does little to ameliorate or augment the process of the body’s own blood replenishment,” Joseph said.

“Well, the body recovers fast enough in that regard,” Henry said. “It takes but two or three days, and that is all – ordinarily, to return to similar levels of iron, it takes most men a month or so, if not two.”

“Gráinne has an idea.”

“She does?”

“If one could encourage a body to— to overproduce its ordinary stock of blood, that is. As one overfilling a cup, that a vampire might but skim the excess, and cause no weakness or loss in his prey whatsoever.

“She has used your own potion – or, that is to say, your friend Marcellus’ – as a point upon the map, but makes now her own journey – it is her belief that one might prime the body, over the course of but a few weeks, to produce blood to excess, that it might be thus skimmed, as cream from milk, and thus leave the body no weaker than it had been before. So long as the blood might then be stored, you could drink from one person for some three or four weeks, and do him no harm whatsoever.”

Henry smiled slightly, leaning back in his chair. It was an interesting idea indeed – it would certainly reduce his reliance on a wider circle of those to feed from, thinking only of his own needs, and in the wider scheme of things, why, so long as it did not do any harm to those who drank the potion… One could hardly, he expected, drink directly from the source, for so regular an exposure to vampiric venom could hardly do the body good, but that the only reason he really _preferred_ to drink in that matter was because blood-letting often seemed so painful in contrast, and in any case, he struggled to measure what he might take without doing any harm, whilst still ensuring he took enough to sate his own appetite.

“Mr Jones,” Henry said quietly, “your wife really is something of a genius, isn’t she?”

Joseph beamed, and he looked so very happy that Henry’s heart rather felt as though it had grown somewhat larger in his own chest. His mother would be so delighted to see him so happy, Henry was certain.

“You know, Mr Coffey,” Joseph murmured, “she _really_ rather is.”

**THEOPHILUS**

There was a limit to that which could be written upon the page in a letter, even to a friend one considered very dear, and Theophilus did consider Bartholomew, at this juncture, to be quite dear to him indeed. Mr Coffey had mentioned to him, in mild tones, some time ago, that there were small pieces of magic one could weave into the fabric of one’s envelope, certain glyphs that would make a letter resistant to the press of prying eyes, that would encourage one to overlook its contents, or to render particular passages invisible, but as Mr Dufresne – to Theophilus’ own awareness and to Henry’s – knew naught of magic and its particulars, he would be taken in by such enchantment as any spy or member of the constabulary might be.

Implications might be made, of course.

Implications certainly _were_ made – scarce a letter came from Bartholomew where he did not mention particular gentlemen friends of his, with whom he was very close indeed, and Theophilus knew not precisely how to categorise his emotions in that regard.

They were not jealousy, he did not think.

That is to say, he did not believe he felt jealous of those gentlemen for taking Bartholomew’s time or his affection – he did ache for something, pine for something that seemed not unlike that which Bartholomew mentioned. The idea of a gentleman pulling him into his lap and laughing into his mouth made parts of him thrill; the very conception of such a man pulling him into a dance to music made his cheeks feel hot and his fingers twitch against his side; Bartholomew had never mentioned a kiss, but a kiss, a _kiss_ from a man…!

Bartholomew Dufresne was handsome, of course. Handsome, and charming indeed, and it was not uncommon for Theophilus to think of his hands, his smiling lips, the soft purr of his voice in French or English or Ladino, and yet the emotion attached to him seemed to lack a fullness that he wanted for.

A fullness he felt, when he thought of Mr Coffey.

How shameful a thought indeed.

Theophilus lay back upon his bed’s perfectly straightened sheets, the blankets laid over it, though he was still quite clothed, and clasped his hands over his belly, staring up at the cream-coloured paint and wooden beams of his bedroom ceiling, his lips pressed tight together.

A weight had indeed been lifted from him, when he had told Mr Coffey of the specifics of his inclinations: never had he voiced such a thought even within the comfort of his own head, so great a risk it seemed, and yet in that moment of revelation there had been something so tremendously liberating he felt as though he were entirely a new man, as though he had shed a skin, or perhaps burst anew from a cocoon. Such were the facts of the matter: he was a young man disposed entirely to the attentions of his own sex, and fear would not keep him from those inclinations.

Fear could not keep him from other inclinations, however, such as those he held toward Mr Coffey himself.

What had he thought, so naively, that for such an admission would prompt Mr Coffey to declare that if Theophilus held such inclinations, they ought become lovers themselves, and live as some suit-clad Patroclus and Achilles? Could he really have thought, have hoped so desperately, that Mr Coffey might embrace him with his lips instead of his teeth, and that they might fall together into Theophilus’ bed, and some blissful future?

Groaning quietly to himself, Theophilus rolled upon his belly, taking the pillow from his bed and burying his face quite hard against its yield, squeezing his fists tight against the pillow, feeling the pressure against his fingers and wishing he could squeeze something that yielded just somewhat less, that he might feel a more satisfying resistance against his fingers – by God, he wished he had such a giant as Bartholomew’s friend Maximilien to embrace him, that he might be squeezed from all sides indeed.

In all his years, he did not believe he had felt as he did now about Henry Coffey. Not merely a gentleman, not merely a creature of the night, but his employer – how best to set such feelings aside?

Mr Coffey was not merely the only gentleman to which he had ever devoted this particular space of the heart, after all – he did not believe he had ever had such a _friend_ as Mr Coffey, either. He had never known anybody, never known _of_ anybody, such as Mr Coffey, and to lose him to some quaint tremor of the heart, he could not readily conceive – and yet faint as the tremor ought be, he felt he should die with it.

Bartholomew would know what to do with feelings like this.

Perhaps he might sweep them away.

Theophilus’ dreams, in recent weeks, had taken a new turn – rarely, now, was it the case that the men in his dreams were faceless, or without voice. No longer, now, did he dream of ghostly men passing through his life as but swathes of mist, but now they were full-bodied, and smiling, with sandy-gold hair and perfectly appointed lips, with green-flecked eyes and perfect hands.

Mr Dufresne never even made a passing appearance, any longer.

Perhaps if these dreams were entirely intimate in their nature, delineated upon the familiar muses of variations upon the definition of _buggery_ , if these dreams were replete with sodomatory and other such things, perhaps his feelings would be different, his emotions not quite so complex and needling in their appearance. Perhaps, if his dreams turned only to the thought of what Mr Coffey held between his legs, or thoughts of both of their legs entwined, or thoughts of Mr Coffey undressed, his teeth unsheathed, Mr Coffey’s hands on his body or even – Theophilus’ cheeks grew hot at the thought – Theophilus’ own upon Mr Coffey’s, perhaps it would be different.

Some dreams were indeed like that.

From some dreams, Theophilus awoke in a hot sweat, soaked through his nightclothes, and had to move himself swiftly indeed to cleanse his sheets of the shame of it: in some dreams, he felt the exquisite needle of Mr Coffey’s teeth at his neck again and again, and thereafter came the most impossible, agonising ecstasy.

In most dreams, they merely held hands, or spoke together in the office. Sometimes, they kissed, or touched their noses to one another; Mr Coffey cupped his cheek, and Theophilus was free to reach out and adjust some error in his person, to smooth out his coat or adjust his buttons.

This morning, he had awoken from a dream wherein they promenaded in Vauxhall Gardens, with their arms looped, and Mr Coffey’s cold fingers stroked Theophilus’ upper arm as they walked together, and still the lingering recollection of those fingers had lingered when Theophilus had woken, so much so that he had lain in his bed for quite some time musing upon the subject, that he was very nearly late for chapel before he realised the time.

To whence would they go, when go they did from Birmingham?

Theophilus hardly knew.

He did know – he was fairly certain – that he would follow Mr Coffey, no matter where he went. It seemed to Theophilus that some considerations made within him were not unlike the shifts of stone in some great monuments, where finally one last brick was set into place, and forevermore ensured the strength of its line and every line beneath him: his decision to thus ally himself with Mr Coffey had now, he was quite certain, been made.

He would follow the man where e’er he went, no matter how far.

If they were to sail? So be it.

Mr Coffey had made some vague musings upon the subject aloud, and said they might go when the weather was clement, when came the months of April and May – come March, Mr Dufresne had invited him to go down to London. Still months away, and yet Theophilus both dreaded and thrilled at the invitation in turns, as though it were to be fulfilled tomorrow.

“Do you ever wish the world could be simpler, Mr Essex?” had asked Mr Coffey, the afternoon previous.

“The world seems to me to be somewhat simple, Mr Coffey,” Theophilus had replied. “I only wish the people within it could match it in kind.”

“You think people to be complicated, Essex?”

“I do, sir.”

“Even yourself?”

“More than I’d like, sir.”

“Ah, Essex. As ever, I find you to be more correct than I should like.”

Theophilus squeezed his pillow tighter.

He lay in his place ‘til came the time for supper.

**HENRY**

“Would you like to meet some friends of mine, Essex?”

“I would make no objection, sir,” said Essex, glancing up from the essay he was proofreading, arching one of his eyebrows. “To whom ought I look forward to making the acquaintance of.”

“Genesius. And Marcellus too, of course – the two are something of a matched pair.”

“Heart and spade, sir.”

“I—” Henry chuckled, surprised by how very charming seemed the appellation, although Mr Essex said it without any apparent intention of wit or humour. “Yes, Mr Essex, I suppose so.”

Henry smiled to himself as he looked back to the page, looking over the strange, squared looping of Marcellus’ handwriting. He had quite forgotten the peculiarities of it, but now looking back to the page, all his oddities had flooded back to him with the sweet warmth of affectionate recollection: the spacing of his letters was quite strange upon the page, as only a gentleman who had recently accustomed to thinking of such things as important could. Henry had adapted himself to the new ways fast enough, but then, Marcellus had lived so much longer than he had with the old, and some of the sentences were fragmented oddly, splitting words in two or making use of certain shortenings and contractions no one else Henry knew ever have themselves.

“We shall be travelling north to meet them, out into the country, for they don’t have great affection for the bustle of a city such as Birmingham,” Henry said quietly. “I would invite Joseph and Gráinne to join us – they have a proposal for the two of them I think they will look well upon.”

“A proposal?” Mr Essex repeated, glancing up at him.

“Mm,” Henry hummed. “Gráinne would remake the way we vampires drink.”

“Oh,” Essex said, looking interested. Henry had indeed sorted out a consideration of sorts with one of the brothels in the witches’ market for three nights a week, with the remainder of his feedings spread between those who remained upon his staff, and he had made no mention of it to Essex, for he had so disapproved, when first the topic had arose.

It was easier, in any case, to drink from women, and not worry himself as to more—

 _Salacious_ temptations.

“I received a letter this morn, also,” said Mr Essex, the words flitting somewhat fast from his mouth, as though they burned his tongue, and as though he had been waiting for the opportunity to lend them voice.

“Do tell.”

“From Mr Greenwich.”

“Oh,” Henry said, looking at Mr Essex’s expression, which was twisted in an expression of some carefully held distaste, and he gently set aside Marcellus’ missive, standing to his feet and moving across the room to lean against Mr Essex’s desk, that he might look at him closer. Mr Essex’s expression was not deeply revealing of his mood, but Henry marked in it some familiar notes of tension, in the slight furrow of his brow, the shift of his lip – Mr Essex was not merely displeased, but seemed anxious. “Mr Essex,” Henry said softly. “What is it that ails you?”

“I have not been entirely honest with you.”

“This again?”

“Meaning,” Mr Essex went on, giving Henry a flat look that Henry did not receive unfondly, “that I have not— I have never told you the precise… You know I found Mr Greenwich to be a distasteful employer.”

“You have told me so.”

“Though I remained in his service for some years.”

“You did.”

“He has shares in the East India Company,” Mr Essex went on quietly. “He is a member of the committee that should decide my brother’s appointment within the company’s fleet – Damainos, that is. I worried… I worried, in such a case as I offended Mr Greenwich, that he should unfavourably affect my brother’s career. His son was still a babe in his arms when first I realised I would not remain in Mr Greenwich’s company, if I might take another appointment, but he…”

Mr Essex, shamed, looked down at his knees, and Henry so hated to see him so undone by such emotion, to see his expression crumple. Were it up to him, he should never see such an expression writ in his secretary’s features ever again.

“A young man offended him,” Theophilus said quietly. “But a midshipman, you know, the boy of some lord or other – I well recall the occasion, for Mr Greenwich and I entered the room whilst he was laughing with friends of his, and the boy declared that he should never look well upon indentures, for to render a man without liberty was to render a ship without his sails. Mr Greenwich took offence, though it was but a casual declaration from one child to others – poetic in its way, and noble… And Mr Greenwich turned toward him, and said he ought retract the statement – said that it was such romance as would blind a boy to good business. He took it so very personally, as though the child had insulted him, but of course, he did not know any better, merely maintained his standing.

“He altered the young man’s appointment, that he should be set beneath one of harder captains who sails the Indian Sea. He drowned off the coast of Bengal, though I read the weather reports in that ship’s log myself, and there was no reason he ought have been turned overboard.

“Mr Greenwich never made mention of it. But it was… He is a man quite petty, Mr Coffey. A man who would not shy away from revenge where it might be taken, even for the smallest of slights – I hardly felt I might fast divorce myself from his service whilst my brother remained within the company.”

“And?”

“He writes me asking that I should return to his service,” Essex said quietly. “That he should triple the allowance he had allotted me before, and that he would put me on a track to some success in America. He even said he would take it as an insult, were I to refuse him.”

Henry was quiet. He knew not what to say, what comfort he should offer, and his very heart ached.

“You will return to him?”

“No.”

“You will refuse him, then?”

“I don’t know,” Essex said quietly. “I have no proof that Mr Greenwich would make any manner of revenge against my brother, or against any other member of my family – and merely to refuse an offer of employment is not an insult in any man’s right mind, no matter the money offered, particularly if it should expect of one that he move to another continent entirely.

“It seemed that every day in that man’s service sapped some part of me away,” Essex murmured. “And yet that is nothing to all the lives thus destroyed by the work I did – the work I made more efficient. How many men were bought and sold, to avoid some imagined threat upon my brother, or whatever else?”

“That is all that troubled you?” Henry asked.

There was some catch in Essex’s expression, and Essex turned his head away, his expression crumpling further.

“Forgive me,” Henry said quietly. “I have no doubt of your affection for your brothers, Mr Essex. Merely that it seems to me that Mr Greenwich, from what I have heard as you speak of him, prefers a more direct manner of revenge, if it might be approached.”

“I wish all men such as he would perish,” said Essex, scarcely breathing out the words.

“Enough that you would become their executioner?”

Essex looked up at him, and then said, quietly, “Perhaps not, sir.”

“There is the greatest argument against the hangman’s noose, Mr Essex,” Henry said softly. “If we would not operate its mechanism, we could not wish it upon another.”

“He had a drawing of mine,” Essex whispered. “Taken from my room when I lived amidst the servants at his home, likely by one of the serving boys – I know not if it was taken with the mind of such reporting, or if it was taken out of curiosity, and merely found its way…” Mr Essex trailed off, his voice fading into the ether, and Henry wished more than ever that he might reach out and touch his face, might cup his cheek beneath the cool of his own palm. “The hand is undeniably mine.”

“It depicts?”

“A self-portrait.”

“I thought you did not incline to such things?”

“I do not. It was the only experiment upon the form I ever made. It was… It was idle. I would have burnt it as soon as I rid the image from my mind – you do not _understand_ , Mr Coffey, that sometimes there are pictures that make themselves at home in my head, that I simply must let them out upon canvas or vellum, that I should be free of them, else my fingers twitch for their lingering beneath the skin there.”

A cold unpleasantness, a quiet fear, had settled heavy in Henry’s chest. “The drawing was revealing?”

“Not greatly. But it is… I am…” Mr Essex buried his face into his palms, and let out a low, sharp noise, not ragged enough yet to be a sob, and yet so full of emotion that Henry wished he might end the world, if only to never hear such a sound from him again. “I am identifiable. And the figure with which I am drawn, in the picture, is— Faceless, he might be, but undeniably _he_.”

“And Mr Greenwich has this drawing of yours?”

“I cannot be certain,” Essex said. “But— But it disappeared from my diary before I could take it to burn, and he made some vague statements, vague but pointed enough, in the weeks after, that I…” Mr Essex sighed. “Just yesterday, I thought to myself I should no longer be afraid of that which I carry as part of myself, and yet now, I seem to be made anew with terror.”

Henry stepped forward, and carefully look each of Essex’s hands by their wrists, tugging them gently away from his face. Essex looked up at him, and Henry saw now that his dark eyes were slightly wet, the salt of his tears staining the air between them with the slightest tang: under the loose press of Henry’s thumbs, Essex’s wrists were warm and livid, and he could have lost himself in their pulse.

“We are friends, Mr Essex?” Henry asked softly.

Mr Essex, his eyes shining, stared up at him uncomprehending, but then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Henry said. “Then you will accept that which I say, when I tell you to put this event from your mind.”

“But, sir—”

“Then spare this not another thought.”

The cold fear in Henry’s chest has solidified into something wholly familiar with him, the like of which he had not known for some fifty years at least, a resolution of cause, of action. Perhaps it ought have distressed him, and yet it did no such thing – that Mr Essex’s distress was the core of his resolve might be cited as the reason why.

Holding Mr Essex’s wrists in the way he was, Mr Essex looking up at him, how easy might it be to lean down and close the gap between them, to press his lips to Essex’s and push him back in his chair, to kiss him so soundly as to never again let Mr Essex go another moment without recalling that Henry’s lips had touched his?

“Mr Essex,” Henry said.

“Mr Coffey?”

“You have naught to fear. From Mr Greenwich, or any other man on this earth.”

“You would protect me from every man alive?” Essex asked, arching an eyebrow: even tearful, he could be arch indeed.

Undeterred by the sarcasm in Essex’s tones, Henry said, “See if I don’t.”

Mr Essex’s wrists shifted slightly in Henry’s grip, that his fingers should turn to touch Henry’s wrists in turn, that they should now be gripping at one another, and he leaned forward, up toward Henry, his gaze fixed upon Henry’s expression. “Mr Coffey,” he said breathlessly. “Mr Coffey, you— you ought not make such promises.”

“Mr Essex,” Henry said, “I am sorry to announce to you that never in my life have I done that which I ought.”

Mr Essex’s gaze had dropped from Henry’s eyes to his mouth, his cheeks darker, and all at once, Henry forced himself to draw his hands away, collecting them to himself.

“Would you take the missive to the Jones residence?” he asked. “Whilst you take the parcel of today’s papers?”

“Of course,” Mr Essex said, and Henry did not believe he imagined the lingering in Mr Essex’s voice as Henry walked away, as though he were leaning after Henry even as his absence was assured.

Henry did not believe he had ever wanted anything as much as he wanted, in this moment.

Perhaps that was why he told himself it could not be meant for him.


	15. Chapter 15

**THEOPHILUS**

In early March, Theophilus sat across from Mr Coffey in the coach, which Mr Woodrow Senior was driving. Mr Woodrow Junior had insisted he be permitted to join them for the sake of the adventure, and looked rather dashing in his footman’s uniform, although Theophilus had been quietly advised – by his father and by Joseph – not to tell him so, as he was prancing about already, needlessly pleased with himself.

Mr Greenwich’s obituary had been published in the newspaper that morning.

Theophilus had not read it aloud, but he thought Mr Coffey knew of it, for he was looking now out of the window, his expression drawn and far away, and quite serious. Gráinne and Joseph had already made the journey north some week previous, and had written as to the charm of Genesius and Marcellus’ hospitality, said that things were going very well indeed.

“Mr Coffey,” said Theophilus, breaking the quiet between them, and Mr Coffey raised his chin slightly, but made no other indication that he had heard Theophilus’ voice over the quite rumble and rattle of the wheels upon the road beneath them, where lingered the stones laid by men so very, very long ago. In his voice, there was the slightest of tremors, and yet he felt no hesitation, no regret in that he was to say. “I wished to extend my thanks to you.”

“For what?”

“I would not have you insult my intelligence, sir,” Theophilus whispered. “Particularly not when you have gone against your own code of conduct in the case of my defence.”

Mr Coffey drew his eyes from the road passing by outside their window, and now met Theophilus’ gaze, his lips pressed very loosely together. Perhaps Theophilus ought have felt anger, disgust, and yet he felt only a sense of relief – desperate relief, brought, once more, by Henry Coffey’s presence in his life. “I have done no such thing.”

“Scant weeks ago, did you not tell me that he who would not swing the executioner’s axe himself ought not call for another man’s execution?”

“There are more ways than one to swing an axe,” Mr Coffey said seriously. “I merely passed Mr Greenwich’s name through certain… motivated circles, defined by their opposition to the EIC and its would-be monopoly, and particularly against slavery. I requested that he should be in some way toppled: I did not think they would have him killed. It was owing not to his influence within the Company, but to his plantations, I am informed, but it is still not what I should have wanted, even for a man such as he.”

Theophilus felt, at once, a sense of quiet relief, and a deeper-still affection for Mr Coffey: a part of him ached indeed to close the gap between them, to reach out and put his hand upon Mr Coffey’s, but he did no such thing.

He wondered if, when came the end of the month, his sojourn in London – to the home of Mr Dufresne – might cure him of this ever present focus, if it would unwind the tight frame of the bondage he felt wrapped up in at times, the complicated tangle of his very own thoughts. He knew not.

“I am sorry,” Theophilus said softly. “It must wound you, to hear me thank you for an outcome you did not desire.”

“Better this than another alternative,” said Mr Coffey gravely. “I acted as I did knowing I could not precisely control what outcome might come, and I would do so again, even knowing that outcome in its exactitude.”

“I do not deserve such commitment.”

“I disagree.”

Theophilus settled his hands loosely upon his lap, and looked back upon these last weeks they had been working together. Some elements of Mr Coffey’s business had already been pieced apart: certain properties and businesses had been sold onto other parties, many of them bequeathed upon those that had been running them in Mr Coffey’s stead, and Mr Coffey had begun looking, in recent months, into the process of booking passage upon a sail ship bound for Rome.

The world seemed unfathomably open, as a blank journal opened to a free page, and yet something about that impossible freedom was terrifying to Theophilus – terrifying and exhilarating.

“Mr Essex—”

“Theophilus,” he corrected, almost impulsively, and Mr Coffey’s mouth fell open. His eyes were very wide, his perfect lips parted, the cupid’s bow drawn back. “Theophilus,” he repeated, when Mr Coffey remained dumb, and this time, he pronounced his own name with more resolve. “I would not have a man I would so call a friend as you call me by my surname.”

“Very well,” said Mr Coffey, his tone still grave and pitched low, but his lips smiling. “I would ask, then, that you accept my reciprocal desire for such a relaxation of hard bounds, however, that you call me Henry.”

“Very well,” Theophilus said: he felt giddy, and did his best to show it not at all. “Although I ought remind you that this should not occur before Mr Jones and his wife, nor indeed, your friends, Genesius and Marcellus. I remain your secretary: I would not have them think otherwise.”

“Our friendship shames you?”

“It is a matter of propriety.”

“You think propriety across the world should end, that I should call my clerk by his forename in a dear friend’s presence?”

Theophilus felt himself frown, his gaze settled rather hard upon Henry’s face, and his expression must have been very sour indeed, because the other man turned his face away, and laughed softly.

“I have never known a man to so fiercely guard the honour of the secretarial profession as you, Theophilus.”

“I could name one other,” Theophilus replied softly. He did his best to keep his expression quite neutral, did his best not to show himself as unduly delighted with the situation, that he should say the other man’s name, and so freely, easily. Was there anything more frightening than liberty?

“Theophilus.”

“Henry.”

“I hope what I have done has in some way freed you,” Henry said quietly.

“More than you know.”

Henry gave a neat inclination of his head, and Theophilus said, “Henry.”

“Theophilus.”

“Might I speak to you on something— on something… very frank?”

“Frank,” Henry repeated.

Theophilus nodded his head, trying to ignore the painfully hot burn in his cheeks: he had rehearsed this conversation what seemed like a hundred times over in the safety of his head, and yet now, all that internal repetition seemed worthless to him. Henry Coffey was a gentleman worldly, after all, experienced, and on that latter thought Theophilus could not even bring himself to dwell upon overmuch, for it was a thought _enticing_.

“Bartholomew invited me down to London with him at the end of this month,” Theophilus said quietly.

“Yes,” Henry said, with the slightly tight affect that Theophilus had become accustomed to, when talk turned to Bartholomew Dufresne.

“I have never… That is to say, in all my life, never have I—” Theophilus pressed his lips together, and bowed his head, closing his eyes a moment.

It seemed to him he was assailed by memory – talk at table of boys with whom his brothers took their schooling, who touched one another too long or lingered too close together in ship’s galleys and tight corridors; talk over brandy as to the gentleman who had been foisted from naval service after being caught _in flagrante_ with a dock boy; chatter and laughter, as they shoved one another and played one way back and forth, as to such a man who could be so poorly formed in Adam’s image that he should desire all that Eve was not, and instead desire the Serpent.

Damainos and Socrates were not cruel men. Such men as those inclined to their own sex, it seemed to Theophilus, hardly registered in their estimations as people at all – any more, really, than might a vampire, or a sorcerer. They were strange mysteries, creatures swathed in mythology, seemed scarce real.

These were, of course, impolitic topics of conversation, and often when they arose his mother would swift put her foot down and push matters to a topic more befitting young gentlemen, but even this was done with an air of judgement, of concern as to the sin merely of acknowledging that such creatures ought exist; and as for his father…

Gerasimus was not a man who spoke often. When he did speak, it tended to be curt, quiet, and to the point: Theophilus very vividly recalled the moment when he had been fifteen, and his father had said quietly to Damainos that there was a reason the pillory existed as a deterrent, and were it used with more prejudice, some scourges would not be so present in England as they were now.

“Theophilus?”

Henry had surely kissed women, in his lifetime.

He was a gentleman worldly, had certainly been intimate with women, no doubt had been intimate with dozens of them, so handsome was he was, and so full to the brim with charm, and yet how, _how_ did anybody…?

“It is of no consequence,” said Henry softly. “We won’t be to much longer in arriving.”

Theophilus nodded his head, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, and he leaned his head against the cushioned edge of the coach’s seat, and across from him, he watched Henry’s lips shift into a small smile.

“Marcellus is handsome, you know, so I am informed,” said Henry. “Genesius, in his own right.”

Theophilus felt his lips twist into a small frown, his brows furrowing: he didn’t know what precisely to make of this particular statement, or the considerations therein, and perhaps his confusion showed in his face, because Henry’s cheeks coloured subtly, and he glanced down at the coach floor.

“Merely— I thought you might like to draw— or merely…” Henry stumbled over his words, and then closed his perfect lips. “It’s nothing.”

Theophilus felt himself smile, despite himself, letting out a quiet laugh – it was intended as supportive, then, after some fashion, and yet with that said, Theophilus could only wish…

There was no sense in wishing.

**HENRY**

“Henry!” said Genesius as Henry stepped down onto the path, and Henry smiled at the other man. The sun had set already, the orchard lit only by the braziers upon the columns that solidified the walls, and from that shadowed light, Genesius stepped forward.

Genesius was a giant by most men’s standards, tall and broad at the shoulder as much as he was narrow at the hip, and his skin was a dark, burnished bronze, his hair settled around his head in thick curls: when Henry came to him, his head was in line with Genesius’ great, broad breast, and Genesius hesitated not at all in grasping Henry by his cheeks, leaning down to kiss him upon each, and then to drag him into a tight embrace.

Henry laughed as he hugged the other man close, taking in the familiar scent of rosewater that ever clung to Genesius’ clothes and his skin, and then he stepped away from Genesius.

Marcellus was standing some feet behind Genesius, and he did not grab immediately for Henry as Genesius had: he opened his arms and let Henry step toward him, and as they kissed one another’s cheeks, Marcellus said softly, “He’s going to pick your boy up.”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t look like the sort that will like it.”

“We can only wait and see.”

He heard Theophilus let out a sharp noise as Genesius picked him up about the waist, laughing, but it was – as was in Theophilus’ nature – remarkably restrained, and when Genesius set him back down upon the ground, Henry could see the dusky-pink glow darkening the brown of his cheeks, but of course, Theophilus’ gaze did flit down to Genesius’ gigantic breast before slipping up to his handsomely chiselled features.

“ _Theophilus!”_ said Genesius, before flitting into speaking easy, rapid Greek, cupping Theophilus’ cheek with one great hand. It meant very little to Genesius – he was a man extremely easy with praise, and although Henry knew no Greek whatsoever, judging by the way Theophilus’ eyes widened and his cheeks darkened still, he was being exceedingly complimentary indeed. “ _Marcellus_!” cried Genesius, one hand on Theophilus’ shoulder. “Do you _see_ this young man?”

“I see him, Genesius,” Marcellus said mildly. “He is quite handsome, yes.”

“And you’re an artist, hm? You draw, you paint, you sketch?”

“Yes, sir, I—”

“Come!” said Genesius in his bright, booming voice, pushing him with his hand between Theophilus’ shoulders and toward the house. “You will show me!”

Theophilus shot Henry a panicked look, but when Henry smiled at him, Theophilus returned a nervous smile of his own, and allowed himself to be ushered up the steps and into the house.

It was a farmhouse at the edge of a plum orchard, modestly built with a heavy thatched roof and wide, sun-filled windows, and Marcellus smiled slightly as he stepped toward the gate, pulling it closed.

“There is tea steeping for you in the bower, and there are honey cakes besides,” Marcellus said pleasantly to the Woodrows as Ambrose passed his father the trunk from the back of the cab. “Anders is in the village, and will come to meet you when he returns. Might we get you anything?”

“Nah, we’re all right,” said Mr Woodrow, walking down the other path with the chest in hands.

“Thanks,” said Ambrose brightly, with a beam of pearly-white teeth. “You’re Marcellus, yeah?”

“Quite right.”

“And that was Genesius?”

“Indeed.”

“He’s _huge_.”

Marcellus’ lips parted, although no offence was writ in his face: he tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, and glanced back to Henry, who merely shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s very tall,” Marcellus agreed, and as Ambrose dashed after his father, Marcellus latched the gate, and walked beside Henry as they moved forward. “What a charming young man.”

“Zestful, isn’t he?” Henry asked, and Marcellus softly laughed.

“One does note a certain vitality in the young man. He’s the one you’ll be taking with you to the continent?”

“Truth be told, I expect his father will accompany us as well,” Henry murmured. “He says he should be glad to see his son’s back, but not for a moment do I believe it.”

As they stepped over the threshold and into the house’s porch, Marcellus helped Henry off with his coat, hanging it up, and Henry allowed Marcellus to lead the way forward, into the broad, comfortable sitting room that dominated the farmhouse. Gráinne was sitting beside the fire with a notebook in her lap, making copious notes as beside her, Joseph tipped his head back against the loveseat’s back, snoring softly.

Married life suited him well.

“You like marble?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Better than pencil?”

“No, sir.”

“Chalk?”

“Do I like chalk better than marble, sir, or better than pencil?”

“Best for both our sakes you should just list every medium in order of your preference.”

“… You think this is important to our acquaintance with one another?”

“Very dry, isn’t he, Henry?”

“He is, Genesius.”

“I like him immensely.” Genesius clapped his hand down hard upon Theophilus’ shoulder, and Theophilus released a low wheeze of noise as the wind was knocked out of him. “Theophilus – I might call you Theophilus?”

“It seems you might indeed, sir.”

“You might call me Genesius in kind, you know.”

“I might not, sir.”

“I will commission from you a study of my favourite bust. Come!”

Genesius’ great hand encircled Theophilus’ upper arm, pulling him out beneath the wood framing of the veranda, and although Theophilus’ expression was not greatly revealing, Henry looked out for the ever so slight shift of his lips as he allowed himself to be led forth. If he truly so detested Genesius’ exuberant personality – for he was more abundantly jolly, even, than Henry himself – he would be stiffer, and more particular in his boundaries. Henry knew himself how unshakeably firm Theophilus Essex could be, when it suited him.

“Your secretary looks at a glance to be a dignified sort,” said Marcellus.

“And dignified he is.”

“Yet remarkably accustomed to a gentleman’s bright and passionate energies. Where might have he come into possession of such practice, I wonder?”

“Good _evening_ , Gráinne,” Henry said, and for the first time Gráinne looked up from her diagrams and her sketches, her lips shifting into a bright and easy smile as she noticed his arrival. He did not disturb Joseph from his seat and nor did he prompt her to stand as he gently took her hand, squeezing it a moment. She was wrapped in a fleece-lined banyan, curled slightly into Joseph’s side. “Joseph tells me you’ve been innovating at breakneck speed.”

“None of it occurred to me until Joseph introduced me to Marcellus’ decoction. I have spoken somewhat to Marcellus about my designs, but we were waiting for your arrival.”

“Mine?”

“You’ll see later on,” Gráinne said softly, with a small smile. “I have a proposal to present.”

“I’ll fetch you some more cordial from the barn,” Marcellus said to Gráinne. She nodded her head, and Marcellus said mildly, “Won’t you walk with me, Henry?”

“Of course,” Henry said.

It was a mild evening, and as they moved out toward the barn, he could hear Genesius loudly pronouncing Theophilus to be a tremendous artist, and then talking brightly on the subject of the pigments he was taught to make in his youth, and the variety in their colours and uses.

Theophilus’ responses were monosyllabic, and a part of Henry warmed to the fact of it, thinking of how straitlaced Theophilus had been with him in the beginning… And even now, he could hear them.

_“And then we would use realgar.”_

_“It’s poisonous, isn’t it?”_

_“Not to me!”_

He heard the merry sound of Genesius’ laugh, and although Theophilus’ response was a silent one, Genesius did not shrug away from him like some men might. He had expected Theophilus to gravitate toward Marcellus, given certain curiosities of Marcellus’ personality: his affection for fishing and fruit and farm animals, his fierce appreciation for the history of parlour games if not the playing of them, his delight in reciting poetry in whatever language first came to mind.

And Marcellus was handsome. Certainly, he was handsome – there was muscle on Marcellus beneath the plumpness of his cheeks, his arms, his thighs, and in the shortly cropped muss of his straight hair, one could almost imagine a wreathe of olive leaves atop his crown, a costume Genesius insisted on whenever the time for costumes arose.

“Mr Greenwich’s obituary was published this morning,” Henry said as he stepped after Marcellus into the barn. Here were Marcellus’ domestic projects – mead, wine, and beer maturing in their respective barrels; various tinctures and embrocations settled in their jars and cannisters; and through the wood wall of the barn, one could hear the cheerful hum of the bee hives he kept, being a passionate apiarist, and believing honey to be the cure to all ills.

“My associate in America is not under my firm control, I’m afraid,” said Marcellus softly. “But he is not one to act lightly. You worry Mr Greenwich did not deserve his fate?”

“I have no doubt he did,” Henry said softly. “I did not inform you of the specifics, though I would tell you Mr Greenwich was a great proponent of slavery, and that toward Mr Essex particularly, there was some threat of blackmail.”

“You have some affection for him?” asked Marcellus as he stepped toward the great, glass vat of elderflower cordial he’d been brewing, and took one of the empty bottles beneath its tap, turning it to let it flow. “Genesius is right – he is handsome.”

“I would not take advantage of him.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Marcellus said mildly. “He is disposed to men?”

“He is.”

“His gaze scarcely shifted from Genesius’ breast in meeting him.”

“Does anyone’s?”

“I have missed that sharpness of yours,” Marcellus said, stoppering the bottle. “He is disposed to men, but not to you?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“You don’t find him to be handsome?”

“Marcellus—”

“You certainly sang his praises in your last missives.” Henry pressed his lips tightly together, doing his best to swallow down the uncertainty that dragged in his chest, and he took the bottle of cordial from Marcellus’ hands, and Marcellus looked to him seriously. “I don’t believe I have ever read you speak so well on a man. Nor known one not in your employee for so long as you have known young Mr Essex.”

“He is in my employ,” said Henry.

“Ah,” said Marcellus, in a tone so understanding Henry wanted to crumple. “Is that it? Why is it that you think every gentleman you pay a wage must see you as his sovereign?”

“I don’t believe he has ever so much as kissed another man,” Henry said quietly, pushing down the guilt that burned in his chest. And it was true – Theophilus was inexperienced beyond measure, unused to being touched or touching others, and every time he thought of Theophilus moving south to London for even the smallest length of time, for whatever Dufresne might do, or worse, Dufresne’s _friends_ — “I could hardly take advantage of that inexperience.”

“Better that another man should in your stead?” Marcellus asked, arching an eyebrow: even when decades passed between his meeting Marcellus and Genesius one time and then the next, they returned to such familiarity, as though they knew and understood every precise aspect of Henry’s life even in their separation from one another. Henry could hardly be annoyed, because as a rule, they did.

“A man, yes – not a vampire.”

Marcellus clucked his tongue in disapproval, but let the moment pass.

**THEOPHILUS**

Genesius and Marcellus were built in ways not dissimilar to the godly warriors described in Homerian epics.

Marcellus, with his squarely built form, all but threatened to pop out from the tightly tailored venting of his blouse, and indeed from the lacing of his vest: his sleeves were ever rolled up to the elbow, and he wore no cravat, but kept his shirt open, that one might see even from a distance the thatch of dark hair the green-tinged colour of olive bark upon his breast. He had a slightly hoarse, husky voice, and the catch of it as he spoke in his carefully appointed English, imbued with the subtly Latin he often heard from Italians and Spaniards alike – although in this case, undoubtedly it was wholly Latin in its origin, was quite charming to the ear.

And Genesius…

Genesius was a Gigas, greater in his making than any hoplite who had ever been born: all, strapping, with beautiful curls falling around his shoulders in heavy swathes, he had eyes the colour of a cork freshly pulled from a bottle of red wine, and a breast three times the breadth of Theophilus’ entire body, though his waist was only somewhat wider than Henry’s.

He carried himself with the air of a prince, striding one way and then the other, and he was a man impassioned, and opinionated. So described, one might have assumed him to be similar in some way to Henry Coffey, but Theophilus did not find him so: Genesius interrupted often, speaking at such a volume as Henry would ordinarily apologise for, and he was very physically affectionate, and segued often from one language to the next – whether Theophilus knew it or not.

And yet—

He was, in his own way, quite charming.

“Such a wonderful artist,” said Genesius very freely, leaning over the back of Theophilus’ shoulder to look at the easel upon his lap, where Theophilus had been drawing for his benefit, in red chalk, a bust of Caligula Genesius kept – so he informed Theophilus – solely for the purpose of irritating Marcellus. A sweet, floral scent – not concentrated enough to be overwhelming in the way perfume was – radiated from Genesius’ hair and his clothes. “And such handsome hands you have too, _oréa_ – you simply must paint my portrait, and Marcellus’ too.”

“If you wish it, sir,” Theophilus said quietly.

“So accommodating,” Genesius said, and touched his fingers to Theophilus’ curls, rendering a hot flush to burn on the back of Theophilus’ neck. “You are not a sorcerer yourself?”

“No, sir,” Theophilus said softly. “Mr Coffey’s vampirism was my first introduction to that in the world which is truly magical.”

“Have you any talent for the art?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“We ought test you whilst you are with us,” said Genesius. “Such darling shadows as you lay upon the page – such understanding of proportion! You are wasted as Henry’s clerk.”

“I do not agree, sir.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” said Genesius, tugging gently upon a curl of Theophilus’ hair, and Theophilus shivered. “You know what I think you need, my dear young man?”

Theophilus stared down at the page, where his etching of Caligula’s bust was nearly entirely completed, and he felt a soft, uncertain tingling heat beneath his skin. Genesius was a gentleman very handsome, of course – overwhelmingly so, in fact – and yet Theophilus knew not precisely what to say.

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” said Theophilus.

“A haircut,” Genesius pronounced, and patted the top of his head. “Come, I shall fetch my scissors and razor.”

Behind him, he heard Genesius stride away, and quite overwhelmed, his cheeks burning, Theophilus let out a very quiet huff of laughter. Henry truly— _truly_ could not have prepared him for Genesius at all.

Theophilus stood to his feet.


	16. Chapter 16

**HENRY**

“Feeling lighter?” Henry asked as he came upon Theophilus in the orchard, and Theophilus turned back to look at him, giving him a beatific smile. Genesius had not lopped off too much of his curls, only trimming away the ends and finishing the set of his fringe, and it made a big difference in the framing of his face, making his features look somewhat more youthful.

“They can hear us speaking out here,” said Theophilus, glancing toward the lights in the cottage. “Can they not?”

“No,” Henry said, shaking his head: behind him, he could hear the sound of the theorbo in Marcellus’ hands, and the sound of Genesius playing merrily at the harpsichord. “They’re playing music.”

“You can hear them from out here?”

Henry spread his hands, and Theophilus let out a low sound of amusement, looking out at the dark purple skies, where the stars were beginning to show through. Standing very straight, Theophilus held his hands before his belly, and said quietly, “Genesius is very… loud.”

“He is,” Henry agreed. “I thought Marcellus might be more to your taste.”

“It seems to me as of late you are throwing all manner of gentlemen at my feet,” said Theophilus quietly, and Henry hesitated, feeling an uncomfortable twist within his belly, a jump within his lungs.

“I do not mean to offend you,” Henry said quietly. “Merely that I… I should like to see you happy.”

“I am happy enough,” said Theophilus.

Henry wondered why it was he found it so difficult to believe him – perhaps because the loneliness was such a familiar ache within himself. Would it be better, were Theophilus to take up with Marcellus, or some other man entirely, over Dufresne? Whenever Henry thought of any gentleman touching him, Henry _itched_ all over, and yet…

“Do you think it strange that I should be anxious?” asked Theophilus quietly. There was a slight twist in his mouth, his brow furrowed, his expression concentrated, tightly focused.

“Anxious?” Henry repeated, and the concern showed, it seemed, in his voice, because Theophilus glanced back toward him, spreading one hand – albeit in the subtle, particular way Theophilus made any movement – as though to usher away his concern.

“Going south to London,” said Theophilus softly. “I do feel a sense of… uncertainty. I am— Never in all my life have I been set amidst men such as Mr Dufresne, or other gentlemen of his ilk – of _my_ ilk. I feel rather as a young man must feel when comes the time of the ladies’ début in his circle: the world seems full to the brim with opportunity, and yet the breadth of it overwhelms me.”

Henry hesitated before he responded. He did not wish to offend Theophilus, and did not wish, either, to act as though to condescend against him, or to stand in the way of the choices he did wish to make.

He wished he could step in amidst those choices, wished he could cup Theophilus’ cheeks and pull him close, wished, _wanted_ …

“I don’t know that there is any reason you ought,” Henry said quietly. “You fear that you will in some way be mistreated?”

“I hardly know what would constitute mistreatment,” Theophilus murmured. “Have you— That is to say…” Henry watched him, watched the twist in Theophilus’ mouth and the way that he subtly shifted upon his feet, and Henry watched the regular little tap of his fingers, that familiar, regular rhythm. He loved that rhythm, he thought. He loved it quite desperately. “I have no doubt you’ve great experience with all the women you have met in the course of your lifetime, so long as it has been, and that I must seem a naïf beyond measure in your eyes, but I hardly even know… My brothers were always very popular with young women, being as they were sailors, and my sister had a swathe of would-be suitors before she made her selection.”

“Women never showed an interest in you?”

“I did my best to avoid them.”

Henry laughed without meaning to, and when Theophilus gave him a pleading look, Henry reached out and scarcely skimmed his shoulder with his fingertips, not daring to touch him properly.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Henry said softly. “Merely that there is some joy to be found in the idea of your secluding yourself in your rooms with your papers and paints, and peering fearfully about the doorway when came upon you a young lady who might find you dashing.”

“You jest,” said Theophilus, “but you do not find yourself far from the truth of the matter.”

“Theophilus, not for a moment did I think I was.”

Theophilus turned his head away, and although he didn’t show any upset, there was a slight stiffness in his shoulders that Henry could see, and Henry wished he could see into Theophilus’ head, wished he could no precisely what error he had made, what line he had crossed over.

“I am not surprised you had girls hoping to gain your attentions,” Henry said softly. “Charming, handsome, an artist. There are worse qualities a young woman might look for in a husband.”

“And you?”

“And I?”

“You expect me to believe Hawise was the only young woman who ever attempted to gain your favour?”

Here was a moment, where Henry could be frank, and honest. Here was a moment where he could confess to Theophilus that as a young boy, just as Theophilus, he had never understood the appeal of women, that like him, he had been pressured and stymied by the world, and that in this, they shared—

Well, not _all_ that mattered, But it was something, wasn’t it? It was a core they shared?

“Perhaps not,” Henry said quietly. “But no woman that has ever sought my attention has lingered with me.”

Theophilus nodded his head, and yet there remained a tension set in his shoulders, one that relaxed slightly when he blurted out, all at once, “I want for things I cannot have. Things that are beyond what I should rightly want.”

“Theophilus, the world is your oyster. You might have whatever you please.”

Theophilus looked at him, his expression entirely solemn. “If only that were true, Henry. There is a limit to the liberty each man in the world might be allotted.”

“If your liberty does not impeach on that of another man’s, who says you should not take all you might?”

“Self-restraint,” said Theophilus.

“Pusillanimity,” Henry replied.

Theophilus released a low, disapproving sound, crossing his arms very tightly over his chest and looking away from Henry. The plum trees were thickly leafy, although there would not yet be fruit on the trees for some time: their white flowers were fragrant and obviously bright under the light that came from the old farmhouse behind them.

“What is it you’re afraid will happen?” asked Henry, stepping closer to Theophilus, and Theophilus glance at him, his lips pressed loosely together. “You think these gentleman will find you in some way disinteresting, that no one will approach you? Mr Dufresne, alone…” He was aware of the catch in his voice as came Dufresne’s name to his mouth, the slight twist of his own lips, the distaste that came to a head as he thought of Dufresne setting his hands all over Essex’s body, touching his face, his mouth.

Would Theophilus writhe under Dufresne’s kisses as he had under Henry’s bite?

Theophilus looked down to the ground, and Henry hesitated before he reached out and put his hand on Theophilus’ back. He felt the solidity of the muscle of his shoulder under Henry’s palm, and gently, he squeezed one side: Theophilus did not draw away from him, did not stiffen, but infinitesimally relaxed, and in the most marginal of movements, leaned back into Henry’s hand.

A part of Henry soared.

“Might I make an observation, Theophilus?”

“I have made note of it as a tendency of yours, Henry.”

“Catalogue all my flaws, do you?”

“I don’t believe I ascribed a judgement of upon your moral character.”

“It was a subtle condemnation, but I’ve learned to remain eagle-eyed for such things,” Henry murmured, and quirked his lips into a small, playful smirk as Theophilus glanced back toward him. “You dislike attention, do you not?”

“What need have I of attention? I am not a thespian on the stage.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Henry mildly. “God forbid a gentleman kiss your hand at a soirée – whatever would you if your audience called for an encore?”

Theophilus gave him a very flat look, and Henry laughed despite himself, squeezing the juncture of Theophilus’ shoulder once more before he drew his hand away, and he wanted so badly to feel the warmth of Theophilus’ flesh, to lean all the closer, to _hold_ him.

He so hated to consider that Theophilus should ache so very much for other men to draw close to him, and yet that he should fear their attentions, or remain uncertain of them, that the very notion of being observed should so affect his resolve.

Theophilus Essex was a private man. Henry knew this, knew that in every way, Theophilus was devoted entirely to his privacy, was modest and shied away from any undue scrutiny, any undue attention. And yet, how could it ever be undue? How could it ever be, when Theophilus was handsome, erudite, witty, and so—

“I do not believe there to be a great risk of that,” said Theophilus, without equivocation.

“You’re certain?” Henry asked, raising his eyebrows. “Were I there, I might throw flowers at your feet.” He leaned in slightly forward, his weight upon his toes, as he said it – he intended only to tease, to joke, but even in the sound of his own voice he could hear the note of flirtation, too far over the line, and yet Theophilus did not draw away. “The world will not end if you allow a gentleman close to you.”

“And what then?” asked Theophilus. “Betrothal? Marriage? The cartography of marriage has been laid out by hundreds of thousands before us – when comes a bond between two men, what final destination awaits them? A hanging for one or the other; death in the other’s arms upon the battlefield; for one to die imprisoned, or—”

“Theophilus,” Henry interrupted him, trying to stop himself from laughing at the sheer _dramatism_ of it, for all that Theophilus wrinkled his nose at the idea of being seen a thespian, but he could see in Theophilus’ eyes the genuine anxiety, the twist of his mouth. “This is not a critique I have made often of anybody, but you have been reading too much literature.”

“Henry—”

“Nearly all marriages end,” Henry said softly. “That is no different between a man and a woman or two men committed to one another.”

“And the threat of the pillory?”

“I have told you before I would not stand to see you so bound.”

“What of judgement?”

“What matters judgement? Are you planning to run for political office?”

“You’re being facetious.”

“It is in my nature, as caution is in yours. You know well your friend Dufresne – you think he should have the constabulary waiting for you when you arrived in London?”

“And if he did?”

“Perhaps one of them might be handsome.”

“ _Henry_ ,” Theophilus said darkly, and Henry slid his hands back against his hips, resting them there. “Might I make a confession?”

“Theophilus, I beg you to.”

“I am a man uncertain of the novel,” said Theophilus. “New experiences deter me.”

“I know,” Henry murmured.

Back in the house, Henry heard the theorbor’s music come to a gentle ease, and even as Genesius’ fingers continue to pass over the harpsichord’s keys, he could hear the conversation passing between them, in some Coptic-Latin fusion that had become their language in isolation, and although it passed too fast, with too many unfamiliar sounds, for him to make sense of, he heard his name and Theophilus’ alike.

“We will soon be summoned for dinner,” Henry said quietly. “And thereafter will follow Mrs Jones’ business proposal.”

“Are they— involved?” asked Theophilus, scarce breathing out the words. “Genesius and Marcellus?”

“Not with each other,” Henry murmured. “Their friendship is very intimate, by the standards one would expect, but there remain certain boundaries between them, so I would think. You should see them at parties – Marcellus ordinarily has a parade of gentlemen and ladies hanging from his arms.”

“And Genesius?”

“He is not a gentleman of great appetite in that regard,” Henry said softly. “So he has informed me before, in any case.”

“ _Theophilus, Henry!”_ came the loud call from the house, Genesius’ booming voice carrying so loud and clearly as the peal of a church bell might. “You will starve!”

Henry watched the sudden shift of Theophilus’ face as he laughed, a punched chuckle launching itself from his chest and parting through his thin lips, the smile sudden and quite lovely in the dim light, his dark eyes shining with good humour.

“He is not a man for subtlety, your friend Genesius,” said Theophilus.

“ _Marcellus!”_ came the booming proclamation, angled oward the house instead of the orchard. “Henry’s young man called me by my forename!”

“He is not,” Henry agreed good-naturedly, and he felt the lips linger in a smile on his face as they moved back toward the house, walking in quiet rhythm with one another. It would rain when came the later evening, Henry expected, and he wondered if it would rain come the morning, too, if he would see the small, private smiles that always came to Theophilus’ face, the quiet satisfaction in his eyes, when came the fall of rain.

He recalled, when first he had recovered from the bite Hawise had laid upon him, the morning he had woken to the fall of rain, his sense of smell forever greatly augmented, and he had taken in the scent of the rain upon the earth, the fresh scent of it sliding over leaves and flowers and the summer fruits.

What would Theophilus do, with the sense of a vampire?

Would he smile so sweetly when he took in the scent of petrichor; would he look so very, deeply satisfied with the Earth and all its angles, when he heard the pound of rain anew upon the roof tiles, upon the ground outside; when he felt the rain on his skin…?

A sickening lurch made itself known within him as he realised the train of thought for what it represented, the idea of Theophilus Essex whose blood was so cold as Henry’s own, whose flesh was heard, whose body was imbued with the same music of immortality as Henry’s own?

How could he?

With all the tragedy vampirism had wrought upon his life, how _could_ he?

“Henry?” Theophilus asked. “Are you coming?”

“Of course,” said Henry softly, hurriedly, and renewed the speed of his gait upon the path. “I am starved.”

**THEOPHILUS**

Marcellus cooked their meal with assistance from Anders – a servant who had accompanied them down from their home in Brunswick Bay – and from no one else: twice, Genesius tried to enter the kitchen, and was bodily pushed out from within. It was served in the French style, various plates set across the surface of the table, that each of them could pick and choose some morsels as they ate, and Theophilus was reminded of his grandmother’s cooking, when such occasions arose.

“You grew up in Dover, ah?” asked Genesius.

“Yes, sir.”

“Strong swimmer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like to sail?”

“No, sir.”

“Me neither,” said Genesius. Despite being so large as he was, he ate like a bird, picking at small pieces from plates individually, and spoke a lot between his mouthfuls, even as Marcellus ate more steadily. “These sail ships now, they are so very large, and I miss very much the rhythm one once could look forward to, of the oar men at their work. Marcellus was once a captain of a trireme, you know.”

Theophilus glanced at Marcellus, who silently shook his head, and Theophilus did not smile, but settled in his amusement as he looked to his plate.

“What of you, Gráinne?”

“Never been on a boat,” Gráinne said brightly, taking a small sip of the cordial they were each drinking – it was very sweet, but subtly spiced, and although not normally one for the taste of elderflower, Theophilus liked it very much himself. “Or a ship, for that matter. I’d not say no, though.”

She glanced to her husband beside her, and Joseph beamed a close-lipped smile. “Whatever you wish, my love,” he said softly, his voice honey-sweet with endearment, and Theophilus wondered, for but a moment, how it must be…

“You grew up near to the ocean?” asked Gráinne, and Genesius laughed.

“I was born upon the banks of the Nile beneath a dawning horizon,” said Genesius softly. “As a toddler I moved through the grassy reeds – you know, when I was but a very small child, I took for myself an egg from the river side, scooped it up in my little hands and rushed home with it. I kept it very warm in a basket I wove clumsily myself from grass, and you know what hatched from within its white shell?”

Gráinne shook her head.

“I wanted it to be a crocodile,” said Genesius. “I had such visions of myself holding my secreted beast in my pocket, its sharp teeth and scaled flesh, its shifting, flipping tail. I wanted this very much.”

“What was it?” asked Theophilus, and Genesius smiled at him.

“A, uh… Marcellus—” He slipped into a language that was not unlike Latin, although spoken in a way Theophilus had never heard it spoken, and as Marcellus sipped at his wine, he glanced to Genesius.

“It is like a stork,” said Marcellus. “Long legs, blue-grey feathers a glaucous colour. A very large bill, thick and wide, like a whale’s head – dark eyes. Evil creatures.”

“No!” Genesius protested, and Marcellus laughed. “No, not evil at all – my Pamoun was a sweet creature, a darling. Never hurt a soul.”

“You have nine toes, I notice,” said Marcellus, and Genesius clucked his tongue at him even as everyone around the table laughed, except Theophilus, who only smiled.

“What business are my toes of yours?” came the retort, and Theophilus wondered, too, at the ease of speech between them. Watching Marcellus and Genesius was not unlike, Theophilus imagined, seeing two partners so well-acquainted with one another that to dance was so easy as breathing. It did not matter, he supposed, that the two of them were not involved with one another as two gentlemen might be – for two gentlemen to have been together for so very, very long, it lent an intimacy the likes of which that could never be dreamed of, and Theophilus wondered what such a thing must be like, such loyalty, such long-lasting friendship.

It felt, at times, as though he had known Henry for decades, although he himself had not yet lived more than three – what must it be like, to know another man, a friend, for more than decades, for centuries, for millennia, even?

The idea was at once wholly and entirely terrifying, and yet an enticement beyond measure. For no reason at all, he found himself looking to Henry, who was smiling very easily, as though he had forgotten how to frown.

“I raised that bird as my own,” went on Genesius. “Fifty years, he was my constant companion! Never has such a creature in all the world been so capable of such love and affection.”

“How did he respond?” Gráinne asked softly. “When you were turned? Did he notice in you the difference in your blood, your flesh?”

“I do not know that he ever noticed,” said Genesius, looking very thoughtful on the subject, settling his huge, carved chin upon the back of his hand, frowning and furrowing together his brows. “He did not seem to, at any rate, though I think he complained more for the cold when winter came – I did not warm him as once I did. Though there are some animals, yes, Gráinne, who are unsettled by vampiric flesh, but in the way they are settled by anything unfamiliar, I think.

“Marcellus had a dog, when I met him, a hunting dog named Lykaon – I remember he once threw a fit when Marcellus injured his arm, and had to wear a brace about it to set the bone, for the canvas and twine seemed to him so unfamiliar to him, yet when was changed his blood, he seemed not to notice.”

“Can dogs be made vampires?” asked Gráinne. She had a scientific mind, it seemed to Theophilus, far more so than he had himself – she asked a lot of questions about the way in which things worked, the way in which one thing affected another, and was greatly aware of those connections.

“They could be,” said Marcellus, when Genesius looked to him. “But to do so would be to commit to that dog’s care, to ensure he was given what blood he need be given. To go without would drive him quite mad – and dogs lack the restraint men do in needing to sate their hunger.”

“How came vampirism to man?” Theophilus asked quietly, and Genesius looked at him, shifting his lips into a small smile, approving. Gráinne had a notebook upon the table, and now turned the page over, pencil in hand and poised to take notes, and this made Genesius softly laugh.

“In the first instance, it was found in infernal bats,” Genesius said. “They are diamond-hard to the touch, and black as obsidian, about the size of a spaniel. Their venom was used for its opiate quality, until it was realised the extent to which they resisted injury, and for how long they lived. This was centuries before I was born, of course, so I know not the particulars.”

“Infernal?” Theophilus repeated. “As in, from the inferno?”

“Not Hell as in the fiery pit awaiting damned souls,” said Joseph in a tone of quick assurance. “As fae live in worlds some degrees separate to our own, so too do the creatures of Averna. It is a dimension sulphuric, filled with fire, and there live animals not dissimilar to those that walk the bounds of earth – their taxonomy is separate, of course.”

Theophilus took this in for a very long moment, feeling a burning, bubbling uncertainty within him, as though had some a sudden storm. The reality of magic was one to which he had been slowly accustomed, but this was not at all akin to the description of vampires. So many premises introduced at once – _Hell, fae, Averna, separate taxonomy_ …

Henry was the anchor into this world, and in Henry Coffey there seemed to be impossible depths: the world itself seemed to be entirely too wide, and Theophilus was, in the moment, quite overwhelmed.

“Let us finish up here,” said Marcellus, “before we reconvene to listen to your keen innovation, Gráinne. Won’t you assist me in clearing the table, Theophilus?”

“Yes, sir,” said Theophilus softly, settling into the relief that curled down his spine, “of course.”


	17. Chapter 17

**THEOPHILUS**

“Pass that to me, would you?” asked Marcellus, and Theophilus leaned forward with the plate of dolmadakia, stacking up the others of the plates as Marcellus set them into a glass jar, polished to perfect transparency. Only a few inches in height and somewhat less wide than the dinner plates, Marcellus delicately set a lid on top of it.

As Theophilus watched him, Marcellus’ fingers glowed a subtle white-blue, and as Theophilus watched, he turned the glass container as though he were rotating a wheel, drawing symbols Theophilus could not make sense of upon the glass.

“Enchantment,” said Theophilus.

“Yes,” Marcellus agreed, with a neat nod of his head. “Although this is not a common method of enchantment in these days – ordinarily, one draws one’s symbols first, and then runs through them magic as a river current through a series of tributaries. This method cannot be so keenly customised as the more modern ways – but with that said, it is fast, efficient, and effective for the simple tasks.”

“Such as food preservation?”

“Yes,” Marcellus agreed, gesturing for Theophilus to set the dinnerplates into the bowl of sudsy water upon the counter, that they might soak for a time. “Once you break the seal upon the lid, the enchantment is broken – it would not be, were one to draw it in paint instead of magic alone, but this means one need not even wipe clean the board between one spell of enchantment and the next.”

“You were schooled in this methodology as a child?”

“I learned it from the bakery where we bought our bread,” said Marcellus. “I could teach you, if you like.”

Theophilus was quiet, stepping about the table and taking up the individual knives and forks from each place setting. In the other room, he could hear Henry and Genesius speaking back and forth with one another, judging by the volume of each of their voices, reciting lines from one play or another, and he could hear, too, Gráinne and Joseph clapping along.

“I would not know how to begin with such things,” he said quietly. “I know not if I have the talent required.”

“You do,” Marcellus said mildly. “That this is visible to your gaze?” Marcellus held up his palm, and Theophilus watched the soft glow of his fingertips, highlighting the careful swirl of the skin’s whorls upon its surface. “Proof in itself that enough magic runs through you that you might approach it yourself.”

Theophilus set the cutlery in amongst the plates, and then busied himself with the serving plates, and he was aware of Marcellus’ gaze on him, the way that the other man was watching him carefully, keenly.

“You find him handsome, do you not? Your employer?”

Theophilus nearly dropped the serving platter held in his arms, horrified that Genesius and Henry both should hear them with but a wall between them, but Marcellus gave a simple, poetic gesture of one graceful hand, and Theophilus stared at the glow of the blue symbol on varnished wood.

“They can’t hear us?” Theophilus asked.

“Your employer would make use of this enchantment, if he had any skill in the art whatsoever,” Marcellus said softly. “It should fall to you in his stead.”

Theophilus felt uncertain for a moment, and yet there was a lightness in him all of a sudden, a sense of strange easement. There was something very natural in the idea that Theophilus should learn a new skill to excel where Henry could not – how delightful would it be, to serve his employer with small pieces of magic he could not do himself, and make himself all the more useful, all the more… irreplaceable?

“Henry is very handsome,” Marcellus said idly, and Theophilus looked at his back as he took to the dishes, his sleeves rolled up to his upper shoulders, and he could see the ripple of muscle beneath Marcellus’ clothes, so built as he was, like the sailors about whom Theophilus had reached his maturity. “You are not alone in finding him so.”

“I have no doubt,” said Theophilus softly. “But he remains my employer, sir, and I would not cross over that boundary, show such disrespect as that. I appreciate your… _concern_ , but the two of us are strangers to one another, and this matter is not to you to delineate.”

“Such spine,” Marcellus murmured, with an approving nod of his head. “In all the centuries I have known him, I have not heard Henry speak so well on a young man as he does on you, you know.”

“I devote myself as best I can to my duty, sir,” said Theophilus, doing his best to ignore the burn in his cheeks as he brought over the serving plates, and took from Marcellus the plates as he washed them, setting them upon the wood framing before the fire to dry. “You— That is to say, has…”

“You have a question?” Marcellus asked.

“It is of a personal nature.”

“A friend of Henry’s is a friend of mine,” said Marcellus. “That extends to you, Mr Essex – you especially.”

“Mr Coffey has never been married,” said Theophilus. “And he has not had any extended partnerships?”

“He has not,” Marcellus agreed. “For all his good humour, you know, Henry is much like Genesius. He can charm a theatre of thousands, and yet not know how to forge a friendship with one man – and when such a man crosses his path? He fears he holds him hostage with his affection alone.”

Theophilus took up some more of the plates, setting them aside, and then said softly, “I am not— I am not of this world. As you are, as he is.”

“You stand upon the border’s cusp,” replied Marcellus. “But it is a world open to you. Henry has been your guide thus far, has he not?”

Theophilus knew very little of magic.

Henry had explained to him what it was to be a vampire, and Henry had said, too, in passing, the difference between one element and another. The difference between _sorcery_ , spells performed, and enchantment, objects imbued with one power or other, this was easy to grasp, to understand.

A world filled with a preponderance of strange and magical beings, of witches, vampires, demons, and whatever else… And to live for as long as Henry had besides, or so long as Genesius, as Marcellus. He tried to imagine what it should be like, to be a vampire as they were, and to live so many decades past the deaths of all his family, and…

“Does it not ail you?” asked Theophilus softly. “To live so long as you have, as you do?”

“No,” Marcellus said, passing him the knives and forks for Theophilus to set to dry. “I fell from a boat and very nearly drowned, and it was Genesius who drew me up from the banks of the Tiber, and massaged the water from my lungs. He lingered with me for some time, for years, and I… I was very frightened to die. When I fell very ill, he offered to me that which made his life so long, and his health so hale. I am indebted to Genesius in more ways than I can say.”

“And your family?”

“My wife had died some ten years before I met Genesius,” Marcellus said quietly, his tone serious, “but I nursed my sister as she died. It might seem callous, but I was never very close to any of my family, Mr Essex. I mourned my mother when she passed, of course, but we lived far apart from one another. There is a sadness in seeing friends die, but Genesius and I do not live on alone. We share our lives, and all the beauty in them. Is that not what you want for?”

“You are bold, sir.”

“From exposure only to Genesius, I assure you,” was the reply, and Theophilus exhaled through his nostrils, lacking indeed the confidence and assuredness to be labelled a laugh.

“You made the choice to serve at his side?”

“Indeed, I did,” said Marcellus softly. “I would still call him my master, to those unfamiliar with our friendship – but it is not indentured service, as you would know it. It is a life debt, so simple as that. We serve one another.”

“And yet you serve more than he.”

“No,” said Marcellus softly. “Perhaps it seems that way, from an outsider’s view, but from within… No. Not hardly.”

Theophilus considered this for a moment. There was a comfort, in many ways, in settling himself as Henry Coffey’s clerk, for there was an undeniable bond between them, and yet not an equality – with no threat of such equality, they could not rightly be brought beneath the same light and be thus observed. Theophilus could linger in the comfort of Henry’s shadow, and yet be comforted in turn by his light: it seemed to him the perfect way of things, and yet—

Their relationship was, in its way, reciprocal. He did not deny the good work he did as a secretary, for he had no doubt that Henry’s trains of thought, ever hectic, chaotic, ever held in many loose bouquets, could not be so deftly stitched to paper as Theophilus stitched them; he did not believe any other man could retain Henry’s focus upon one topic or other, even whilst maintaining the dance of idle conversation; he doubted there were many who could so follow Henry’s jump from one focus to the next, as Theophilus did.

These leaps of fancy were strange, for at once they seemed quite intuitive, and yet were all but random: when Henry transitioned from the make-up of tailor’s chalk to the taste of certain supreme honeys, the leap might have seemed mad, and yet Theophilus had only thought so when Mr Jones had said some hours later, for in the moment, the thread passing through the needle had so easily become the drip of honey into a pot. Such visual shorthand was, he had needed outside assistance to observe, something he had grown into with Henry, and yet how well it worked.

Theophilus had never been able to dance – in many ways, it felt as though now, he could.

And yet, for how long?

For how long, until his and Henry’s paths inevitably diverged, before Theophilus grew old or ill or died away entirely, before Henry came to the plain understanding that in Theophilus, there was naught new to be found, naught exciting to be savoured, but merely Theophilus himself?

“You are frightened,” said Marcellus.

“You think I am frightened of immortality?” was Theophilus’ retort, bolder, he thought, than ever he had been before: he had been caught off-guard, and shame followed fast on courage’s heels.

“I do,” Marcellus said softly. “You are not frightened to live forever, Mr Essex, so far as I might see it – you are merely frightened to live at all.”

The words did not hit sufficiently hard to be called blows, and yet they lingered within him with such strength as if they had been so solidly appointed. Theophilus was quiet and still, and when Marcellus’ hand gently touched his shoulder, his hand a heavy weight, it was to guide him to the table.

“Do as I do,” said Marcellus lowly, and Theophilus watched the movement of his other hand as he drew upon the air over the table two easy, smooth symbols: Theophilus followed the movements of his hand as best he could, and after two attempts, Marcellus pushed his hand down to the top of one of the dishes, that his fingers should touch the glass. When Theophilus had drawn upon them the symbols, Marcellus affected them to flare with softly green light, and breathlessly, Theophilus exhaled. “The movement of your finger is as a shape drawn in gunpowder – the flare of magic afterward is the match.”

“You think I could learn this art?”

“Easily,” Marcellus murmured, and drew away his hand. “And other arts besides. Come, take the brandy into the other room, and more cordial for Mrs Jones.”

Theophilus obeyed, and as he balanced the tray on one arm, pulling forward the door between the kitchen door and the other corridor, he felt a subtle shift of energy in its surface, the way one felt the pressure release when uncorking a bottle of fresh ink.

For but a moment, he took it in, that strange, subtle release of an energy he had heretofore never considered in great detail, and yet now one that he sensed upon the air, quite undeniably. Glancing back to Marcellus, he saw the approving purse in the shape of the other man’s mouth, and nodded his head in acknowledgement before he stepped into the other room.

**HENRY**

“Are you well?” Henry asked, and Theophilus nodded his head, but said nothing. The two of them sat together upon the loveseat, and it seemed to Henry that they were a study in opposites, for Henry sprawled back against the couch’s curved back, one hand set loosely in his own curls, the other hanging artfully over the arm, and his legs were stretched out before him, one ankle crossed o’er the other’s joint: in contrast, Theophilus sat quite upright, perched at the edge of the seat, his chin high, his hands settled into his lap. Were one to approach him with a scale and measure, Henry had no doubt one would find the precise degree of his position to be a perfect right angle, and in him, the idea sparked some undeniable affection. “You need not remain up with us once we have listened to Mrs Jones, if you do not wish. I would not insist that you remain amidst us for the revelry.”

“Revelry,” Theophilus repeated softly. “Are you not merely to play cards and speak of times past?”

“Something like that,” Henry said, in good spirits, and Theophilus inclined his head.

“I may retire,” said he softly. “I would not intrude.”

“You could not,” Henry murmured. “But I would not intrude myself upon your sleep.”

“You could not,” was Theophilus’ echo. Sat back as he was, Henry could see the profile of the other man’s face more than its front, and yet even sat thus, it seemed to him he knew Theophilus to be of pensive mood.

“I must thank you dearly indeed,” said Gráinne, on her feet and stood before a chalkboard that Genesius had pulled out for her, looking like a schoolmistress. Huddled as she was beneath her dress and her warm blankets, one could not see the bump of her belly, and yet Henry knew that of the five gentlemen in the room, three of them were aware of her child’s heartbeat syncopated with the rhythm of her own, and he wondered if she had considered this herself, if the thought distressed her, or brought her joy.

But then, he sincerely doubted, as she was, that it was one or the other – the matter was no doubt one of scientific curiosity, and naught more.

“I have met in my life but a few vampires,” she said softly, “travelling as I have this island.

“Of those vampires who travelled freely, it seemed to me that most relied upon brothels, or other such places where a man or woman might in some way ply his trade by manner of flesh – I have seen vampires who have exchanged goods in exchange for this bloody service, and equally, I have seen those who have relied upon the opiate quality of their venom alone as their payment. I had rather thought this was the only way any vampire might feed at all, before Joseph told me of Henry’s household.”

Gráinne’s face had the healthiest of glows, her skin bright and warm, and Henry smiled at her when Gráinne caught his gaze, encouraging.

“It sparked in me, as things often do, a thought, which sparked another, until all my thoughts fell together as a train of dominos, and I was forced to write them down. For, you see, Mr Coffey’s household, his method of taking that which he needs, is quite efficient – to drink from different servants is to ensure none becomes too ill from the effects of being drunk from, but this process is contained to the household, efficient.

“You have a potion that is intended to ensure the generation of blood’s iron,” said Gráinne, and Henry watched the ingredients she began to detail upon the board, her chalk moving very fast to diagram certain reagents and herbs, most of which Henry recognised, but others that were new to him. “But you give it to your donors after you have drunk from them, do you not, Henry?”

“I do,” Henry said softly. “One cannot refill the cup already full.”

“Therein lies my goal,” said Gráinne. “To have a cup overflowing. This particular potion still needs some tweaking – the taste is very poor, and I feel I still might concentrate it to make it more effective, but its purpose is to affect in the human body a tendency to overproduce its lifeblood. Taken over the course of a month, two months, he that should drink of it would be bled each night of the excess, and in that time, might produce the volume of his own body two or three times over.”

Henry felt his eyebrows raise, and he watched the glance pass between Genesius and Marcellus.

“You see,” went on Gráinne, “this is where comes in the proposal aspect of my idea. I think of— of something like a convalescent home.”

“A convalescent home?” repeated Genesius, fascinated.

“Well, you would— You would offer payment,” said Gráinne. “Room and board, and a small stipend, and for however long, the person who would give you his blood, he would come to this home for a time. He would drink this potion, and then be bled of the excess, as one milks a cow, and then just like that, you could bottle the result, and sell it onto those in need of it.

“There would not be a concern of a flu passing through one’s household, or being unable not to meet some stranger who would contentedly give himself to be drunk from - you would be able to buy blood bottled, in the witch’s market, and with no harm done to anybody.”

Genesius and Marcellus fell into conversation – that is to say, Genesius began to speak incredibly rapidly, enthusiastically, even as he got to his feet and cupped Gráinne’s cheek and her shoulder, looking delighted, whilst Marcellus occasionally let out a sound of what seemed to be agreement.

“What say you?” Henry asked Theophilus, who turned to look at him.

“Blood farming,” said Theophilus said softly. “With no harm to its donors. It is an idea encouraging, to say the least, Mr Coffey.”

“Were you me, you would present this to the Vampiric Council, when we met them upon the continent?”

“With Mrs Jones’ permission, and due credit given, sir,” Theophilus reminded him, his tone not especially arch, but very firm indeed, and Henry could hardly help the way his face crumpled into an easy, bright smile, so warmed was he by the familiarity of Theophilus Essex.

“Of course, Mr Essex,” he said. “I would never dream of doing otherwise.”

Stoutly, Theophilus nodded, and when Henry looked forward, he saw Joseph smiling at him, even as he reached for his wife’s hand, drawing her to him that he might christen the back of her knuckles with the touch of his lips.

Later that evening, Henry retired from the playing of cards early, for Gráinne was winning easily over her three opponents, and he was tired of being the fourth among them – he was ordinarily a charming loser, but he found himself strangely tired, and stepping into the room where settled two beds, he looked at the dark shape of Theophilus laid beneath his own blankets.

“I know you to be awake,” said Henry. “One can hear the difference in your heartbeat.”

“I can hear the noise of you,” came the muffled, mumbled response from beneath the weight of blankets, and Henry smiled slightly despite himself. There was a note of complaint in Theophilus’ voice.

“From up here?” Henry asked mildly. “There are two floors between you and the card table, and a thousand blankets besides.”

“One needs not the touch of vampirism for your Genesius’ laugh to carry to his ears.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Henry, beginning to unlace his shoes, and as he drew off his waistcoat and started upon his belt, he heard the soft rustle of Theophilus’ body in his own bed.

“Are you never cold?” he asked. It seemed to Henry to be a strange question to pose, and for a moment, he wondered what might happen if he said he was, indeed, often cold, and that a young man so warm and livid as Theophilus himself might remedy that.

“Sometimes,” said Henry softly, stepping from his breeches and laying them over the press, and now dressed in but his blouse and stockings, began to divulge himself of the latter. In the dim light, he could see the slight shine of Theophilus’ eyes, scarcely open, so tired as they were, from beneath his bedding. “I do not believe I feel it so keenly as I used to – nor the heat either unless it should burn me. The hardness of our flesh insulates us regardless of the world’s temperature.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Being made a vampire?”

“Yes.”

“To regret it would imply there was a time where I wanted it,” Henry said softly. His legs bare, he crawled slowly into his own bed, and with a licked finger doused the candle he had brought to bed, leaving the two of them in the warm glow of the darkness. Downstairs, Henry could hear Genesius laughing, and he could hear the sound of Gráinne teaching them some words of some language, and Marcellus responding in kind. “But I do not live my life in melancholy, if that is what you ask.”

“Is it not,” said Theophilus.

“What ails you?”

“Thought.”

“Ah, man’s great nemesis.”

“Henry.”

“Theophilus.”

“Marcellus says I might learn enchantment.”

“You do not wish to?”

“I do.”

“You sound unsure.”

“I am.”

“Of enchantment?”

“Of all before me.”

“Ah, Theophilus,” Henry said quietly, closing shut his eyes. Across the room, Theophilus’ heart beat slow and steady, easing its way toward sleep, and Henry only wished he could sink into its easy rhythm and sleep upon Theophilus’ breast. “We share more in common than you might imagine.”

“I try my best not to imagine, sir.”

“Really? Are you ever successful?”

“No. Never.”

“Ah, but if you did not think it worth trying, try you would not,” Henry mumbled. “Therein lies the nature of man, Theophilus.”

“And of vampire?”

“Hm?”

“The nature of vampire?”

“The nature of vampire and the nature of man are alike: he each craves love and liberty.”

“Love and liberty,” repeated Theophilus, breathing the words like a prayer against his pillow. “Yes.”

There followed sleep’s relief.


	18. Chapter 18

**HENRY**

“Will you turn him?” asked Genesius, having appeared suddenly at Henry’s shoulder, and Henry turned away from the window to glance at him, the jump of the shock running down his spine. Despite his prodigious size, Genesius had a cat-like grace and could move very nearly silently – silently enough that Henry had not heard him ascending the stairs to find him.

Now, Henry looked away from Genesius out of the window, where Theophilus was standing beside Mr Woodrow, and was in the process of brushing down the horses. Young Ambrose was perched on the very top of one of the gate’s posts, speaking rapidly with Marcellus upon the subject of growing vegetables, and asking a great many questions that Marcellus was answering evenly, in order, no matter how many questions the boy stacked one after the other.

Having spent a few days in the presence of Genesius and Marcellus, Henry and Theophilus were now to return home, but Joseph and Gráinne would be lingering a few more days before they returned home to Birmingham, for they’d be working through some logistical ideas as to how might develop this idea of Gráinne’s. Genesius and Marcellus had said immediately that they knew certain people to call on, and they thought to test the potion some time over before sinking into it, but after that point?

Where Gráinne understood the crucial tenets of her magical science, Joseph understood every tenet of efficient management and organisation, and Henry had no doubt whatsoever that he could steer whatever ship was set upon the Earth’s seas, so long as he had a good crew to sail her by.

Between the two of them, this particular project was all but a guaranteed success, and that was without Henry’s own sponsorship, or the offer of materials and locations from Genesius and Marcellus.

“Henry?” prompted Genesius.

“I heard you,” Henry said quietly, and leaned his elbows against the high windowsill, watching the way Theophilus turned to look at Marcellus as Marcellus asked him a question – in Greek, not in English, and Henry wondered what it might be like to study the way Theophilus spoke Greek as opposed to English, for it seemed to him that in the set of Theophilus’ handsome jaw, in the movement of his lips, in the hold of his shoulders, even, there was a different poetry to when he spoke English. Henry wondered what it might be like, to settle into that music with him – did Henry so change, when he spoke the French of his childhood, and spoke his mother’s tongue over his father’s? Did his very aspect change, as Theophilus’ did, as though a whole new self was unlocked in him through the set of his tongue alone?

“Marcellus has set books into his luggage,” said Genesius softly, and Henry leaned into his side when Genesius wrapped one of his gigantic arms around Henry’s shoulder, letting himself be squeezed against Genesius’ huge breast. “That he might devote himself to enchantment.”

“He mentioned it.”

“You disapprove?”

“I don’t,” Henry murmured, and he glanced down at Genesius’ fingers where they curled around his fingers. “I won’t be letting you cut my hair, Genesius.”

“It’s so _long_ ,” Genesius said plaintively, and Henry shook his head as Genesius ruffled the top of his head.

“Yours is far longer.”

“I keep mine braided,” Genesius pointed out. “Very tightly.”

Henry felt the cool presence of Genesius behind him, the slow, steady beat of his great heart, and Henry inhaled the scent of rosewater, took it into his lungs and steeped himself in the sweetness of it, just for a moment. He did not know when next he’d see Genesius and Marcellus, once they travelled back to Birmingham – they would be sailing to Italy come August, and Genesius would never deign to travel into the city, if he might avoid it.

“You want me to braid my hair like an Egyptian?”

Genesius set his chin on the top of Henry’s head, rubbing it against the top of his scalp even as he reached around Henry’s shoulders to play with his hair, and as Genesius met his gaze in the window glass, Henry couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“It might suit you,” Genesius purred. “Our very own Cleopatra, and twice as beautiful.”

Henry laughed, and slapped the other man’s hands away, but leaned back into Genesius’ chest all the same, and when Genesius wrapped his arms tightly around his breast and squeezed, making Henry’s bones creak, he closed his eyes and relaxed slightly into it, wishing it could go on for longer.

“I think you should embrace him,” murmured Genesius against his temple, “if embrace him you wish to. He looks at you with such want writ in his face, and affection besides.”

“You’d have me turn him,” said Henry. “And do as Hawise did to me.”

“My dear young man,” said Genesius quietly, “Hawise saw that you did not want for a woman’s touch, and thought if she held you hostage to immortality, you might come to her from desperation alone. You think that situation is in some way analogous to the way your secretary looks at you as though you put the stars in the sky yourself, and did so for his benefit alone?”

“Genesius,” said Henry softly.

“What are you frightened of?” Genesius asked quietly.

“He wants a man that will love him,” Henry said softly. “He wants for a romance the likes of which he could experience with a young woman.”

“You can’t give him that?”

“I, a corpse? No.”

“He knows what you are,” said Genesius. “You have fed from him, even. You think he is so disgusted by that which you are?”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“Oh, Henry,” said Genesius, and then murmured something else – something affectionate, Henry guessed, judging by the cup of his cheek it was accompanied by, and then Genesius squeezed his shoulders and stepped away from him. “Offer him your heart. As calcified as it might be, I think you will find him eager to hold it to his own.”

“Genesius.”

“Mm?”

“The blood farming. You think it will go well?”

“I think Mr and Mrs Jones are a couple inspired,” said Genesius as he stepped away, his hands very loosely settled into the pockets of his banyan. “They would remake the world for the likes of us.”

Henry nodded his head.

“Henry.”

“Yes?”

“Ask him before you decide for him,” said Genesius: his expression was serious, and in his face Henry saw a grave poise that was no doubt now near extinct, except for in men like Genesius, handsome in the way of centuries past. “Will you promise me that, at least?”

“I’ll ask him,” said Henry in the softest of whispers, and Genesius nodded his head in approval before he walked away.

Ask him.

And ask him what, precisely?

Ask Theophilus how he felt about becoming as Henry was, corpse-cold and dead inside? Ask him how he felt about learning more magic? Or, better than that, worse than that – ask him how he felt about Henry himself?

Theophilus would be taking his travel down to London on the day they returned to Birmingham, and Henry had scarcely been able to think of aught else when he had lain in bed the last night, in the bed across from Theophilus’ own, listening to his heartbeat. Theophilus, he had discovered the past few days, moved very little in his sleep, settled beneath the heaviest blankets he might find like a stone, and Henry couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to sleep beside him, with how much he fidgeted himself, ever waking up tangled in his own sheets.

He thought of Theophilus stepping down the streets of London, thought of people turning to look at him as he passed them by; he thought of Theophilus stepping in amongst Dufresne’s friends, thinking of how they might reach for him, touch him as he passed them by; he thought of a young man cupping Theophilus’ cheeks and pulling him into a kiss, or leaning to caress his neck, or—

Or, or, or.

It seemed he could not close his eyes without being assaulted by visions of Theophilus in the rms of one man or another, and as for Dufresne himself, that was the worst consideration of all. Dufresne, with his constantly chattering, Paris-accented voice, all the many questions he asked and all the rambling explanations he sank himself into, all his sweet enthusiasm – _Dufresne_ , who would no doubt tug Theophilus down into his bed to be painted, if he could manage it, and do his best to get Theophilus to paint him back.

In but a few months, Theophilus insisted he should join Henry moving from England’s bounds – and yet surely, stepping to Dufresne, he would change his mind. Surely, knowing he might be able to experience the attention of other men, knowing other men should find him as handsome, as entirely lovely, as he was, he would realise there was more to life than being a vampire’s secretary?

And as for turning him, infecting him with that he had been infected himself, he felt _sick_ over it.

How could he?

How would he be different to Hawise, doing such a thing as that?

No matter what Genesius said, it would be just another form of bondage, a method of tethering Theophilus to Henry and vampires like him, that he might not make the decision to go elsewhere – and because of that alone, Henry almost wanted to indulge himself, for he _ached_ for Theophilus to want him, to touch him, to kiss him.

These were dangerous thoughts indeed.

It was dangerous, to think of Theophilus laid out in Henry’s bed, warm beside him. It was more dangerous still, to think of Theophilus’ quick heartbeat, comforting him. And to think of waking up with him, thinking of Theophilus’ head raising from his pillows, his dark curls forming a messy halo about his face, his eyes still half-closed with sleep, his expression grumpy with the morning’s salutation?

That sort of thought was beyond dangerous.

It was a dagger to the calcified heart.

**THEOPHILUS**

As Theophilus settled back in his seat, his arms loosely crossed over his chest to stave off some of the cold, he thought of Tholo’s last letter, the affection in it, the invitation. Bartholomew Dufresne, that was. Theophilus had never entirely gotten the hang of nicknames – Bartholomew liked very much to be called Tholo, and yet Theophilus could not really envisage it.

He thought, for a moment, what it might be like to be called Theo – the idea did not quite sit well with him, and he frowned upon the thought, feeling it catch in his head as something in the spoke of a wheel.

“Penny for your thoughts?” asked Henry.

“Offer a shilling,” Theophilus said. “And I might be swayed.”

It was something often said in his own family – he realised he had never said it to Henry before, because Henry laughed, plainly delighted, and clapped his hands together, beaming. The laugh was loud in the small space of the coach, and Henry must have noticed the way Theophilus leaned back, because immediately he quietened himself slightly.

“It is secondhand wit only, I’m afraid,” Theophilus said softly, before Henry could apologise. “A favourite response of my father’s.”

Henry nodded his head, and Theophilus watched the expression on his face, the pensive lilt of it as he seemed to next consider his words, and then he asked, “You are close to your father?”

“No,” said Theophilus softly. “Not especially.”

“You and he are on ill terms?”

“We aren’t on terms,” Theophilus said quietly, considering his words even as he said them. His father always seemed as something of a distant figure, one keen to debate or talk specifics, but not one to speak with in depth – but then, Theophilus did not know that any one of his family might be cited as such a one. He was not close to his mother – writing to her was easy for it never contained the painful gaps that ever occurred in conversation with her; Febrona had never really understood him, and Theophilus had never understood her; Damainos found him difficult, at once too literal and too woden; and Socrates…

Socrates tried, Theophilus supposed.

Henry was watching him, waiting for him to explain or perhaps to say something more, perhaps for Theophilus to say something that made more sense, but he had never known precisely how to make things like this make sense. It was the talent of some, but not his – that sort of understanding was not, he was increasingly coming to realise, in his nature.

There were plenty of things that were not in his nature.

Strange, that after so many years upon this earth, he was only coming to terms with the fact now.

“Were you on good terms with your father?” Theophilus asked.

“No,” Henry said. “Even before I refused my betrothal and fled the length of England. My mother died when I was fourteen or so – my father lived on, even as I left the family seat and moved about. I returned a vampire, nearly two decades onward. He expressed that he was surprised to see me return, and never spoke another word to me.”

“I think my father would prefer it were I more like my brothers,” Theophilus murmured. “People tell him they find me to be like him in aspect- this comparison pleased him in my youth, but as I grew older, it seemed to rankle. There is too much in me he finds undesirable.”

“I find that unimaginable,” said Henry softly, and Theophilus looked away, cowed beneath the burn in his own cheeks. “If you join me on the continent, it is probable you will not see your family for some time.”

“I have worked as your secretary for close approaching one year, and not seen them in that time,” he replied, and wondered why it should sound so much like a challenge as he said it. It was nothing to be proud of, to avoid one’s family, to neglect them, and yet he did not feel he had done much to be particularly missed. “There is no if about my joining you – I shall do my work in London, and then we shall move on together.”

“It must be a difficult choice,” Henry said. “To choose your work over your family.”

“Without meaning to devalue my duty to you, Henry,” Theophilus murmured, “it is not the work that has prompted the bulk of my decision.”

Henry inhaled through his teeth, but he smiled as he did it, and Theophilus gave him a small smile, even as Henry took a book into his lap and cracked it, returning his focus to reading as the cart moved south.

Theophilus had what seemed like a sheaf of sketches bound in his luggage, and his fingers itched to draw certain things he had not dared indulge whilst in someone else’s home – he had drawn, in the past week, Mr and Mrs Jones, Marcellus and Genesius, Henry, Anders and the two Woodrows; he had drawn Marcellus cooking or Genesius at an instrument, had drawn Mrs Jones drawing or presenting or laughing. He had studies and sketches of their faces, their hands, their poses in conversation.

He had not drawn Genesius in a state of undress, despite the fact that in all the time they had spent in that house, he had not seen Genesius put on a coat, and never had he so much as attempted to cover the dip of his collarbone; he did not think he had ever at all seen Marcellus and not been able to see the hair on his chest.

He itched to draw it. _Ached_ to.

It felt shameful, in its way, felt like some secretive, improper desire, and yet he had found in himself no particular want to reach for Marcellus or Genesius, to have them touch him or to touch him in turn, no matter that Henry had suggested it.

It wasn’t out of desire, he didn’t think, that he wanted to draw Marcellus and Genesius – not a desire to touch them, or embrace them, anyway. The desire was only to depict them, the desire that always settled in him when he saw anything.

Separate, in fact, to a want for intimacy, for sexuality.

But, of course, for when he thought of painting Henry.

Theophilus pressed his hands together to try to keep them from tapping out the rhythm they naturally tended to, in moments of frantic inner thought, where his hands could not be set to work at paper, and he held his hands neatly between his knees, pinning them in place.

He felt drawn tighter than a bowstring – tighter, even, than the bowstring at Henry’s mouth, where the perfect bow of his lip was curved, settled into contentment as he read.

It was as though some strange mechanism was running beneath his skin, a burning engine, all these months of anticipation building now to what would be the climax – travelling south to London, and landing on the doorstep of Tholo Dufresne. _Tholo_. Tholo.

What might it be like?

To feel another man’s hands on him, to have those hands brush over his thighs, his waist, his chest, to slide over his breast, perhaps his neck? For a man’s mouth, his stubble a tantalising drag over Theophilus’ skin, to brush over his neck, his lips – or perhaps even a face devoid of stubble, one so smooth as Henry’s himself, for Henry had never been able to grow a beard in his life, although he’d tried.

“Is it because you are a vampire?” Theophilus had asked, after Henry had dramatically bemoaned his soft, hairless cheeks, and Henry had groaned into the chaise long he was sprawled over.

“ _No_ ,” he had muttered, voice muffled by the cushions beneath him, and then he had raised his head, his chin on the arm of the chaise, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Theophilus. “You can grow a beard?”

“As thick as a philosopher’s, sir,” Theophilus had told him gently, and Henry had made a sound as a man wounded and threw himself onto the floor with all the grace of a falling ragdoll. He had laughed at that – how could he not laugh, when Henry so performed?

Theophilus had never really gotten the hang of performance. He recalled being oft criticised for his reading of poetry or prose, so emotionless as it sounded when rendered by his voice – and yet he had been criticised of much the same in mere conversation, when he had never considered himself emotionless at all. Quiet, perhaps, and not opinionated, but emotionless?

He wondered if Bartholomew would find him so, given close contact with which to observe him.

He wondered what it would be like to tumble into bed with another gentleman and spend the night beside him, to curl into him, to—

He wanted to very badly he could cry.

That it seemed so close within reach, now, was petrifying. He might not be able to indulge himself entirely, to reach for Henry Coffey, but he could put himself forward, at least, to another man, and kiss him, be kissed – be desired.

He could be desired.

**HENRY**

“I’ll go with you to your boarding house,” Henry said. “If you do not— If you do not object. I would speak with you before you began the journey southward.”

“I have no objection,” Theophilus said softly, and Henry wondered why it was that Theophilus thought himself such a coward, when truly, Henry was the coward between them, when through all the journey home to Birmingham he had scarce been able to force his mouth to move, had buried himself instead in the pages of a book where the letters swam before his eyes, unwilling to make themselves into lines of legible text.

Theophilus Essex, being Theophilus Essex, had already packed away the bulk of his things for London – he would remain there a month, before Henry came down to join him, that they should travel on together. He would not be idle in this time, of course: he had work to do, piecing about certain rumours as to Henry’s recent illness, that when Henry fell ill in a year or so, and died, it would be less of a surprise. There were publishing matters to be considered, and various business elements to be organised, before they travelled to Italy.

And yet, when Henry considered his office, it seemed a blow indeed to imagine working in it without Theophilus at his side, the idea so difficult to imagine as it might be to think of his office without walls or a ceiling.

His room in the boarding house was quite bare, and standing in the doorway, Henry looked at it with a dull throb catching in his heart, his lips parted as he looked at the bare shelves, the empty armoire. The furniture that was Theophilus’ own was already packed in with that Henry would transport with them, leaving only the bed and desk that the Quays had supplied for him, and Theophilus moved about the room as a puppet in a doll’s house, tugging from beneath his bed the chest.

That chest.

“You might look within it now,” said Theophilus softly, placing it atop the bed and smoothing his hands over its surface, not turning to meet Henry’s gaze.

“Would it bring you shame?” Henry asked, carefully closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The Quays were not home, and the two workmen otherwise occupying the boarding house were away, too: the two of them were quite alone, and never had a thought seemed at once so dangerous and so impossibly right.

“I could not say, sir,” said Theophilus, and Henry inhaled slowly, scarcely daring to do more.

“Then no,” Henry said. “I would not look.”

Theophilus nodded his head, a careful movement of his handsome head, and he turned to face Henry, but did not catch his gaze, his focus remaining somewhere in the vicinity of Henry’s chest. When had that tendency of his become so familiar, and so very comforting? Never had it unnerved him, but it had seemed strange, at first, that Theophilus did not oft meet his eye unless prompted, and yet now it seemed a comfortable foundation on which their interactions were based, a natural law that ruled their conversation, and thus one that gave him comfort.

“Theophilus.”

“Henry.”

“Are you frightened?” asked Henry.

“Yes, sir,” said Theophilus.

“You needn’t be,” Henry murmured. “You shall be among friends – and perhaps more besides. And in such a case as you grew tired of Mr Dufresne’s hospitality, I have other friends in London, people who would host you, but that is not going to happen.”

“And if I am pilloried?”

“You will not be,” Henry said, “though if you were, I should be there within the hour to cut you free.”

Theophilus let out a derisive sound. “You would fly?”

“With haste,” Henry replied, quite seriously, and Theophilus did meet his gaze now, seeming surprised. “Although I…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence as he wished to, and he watched Theophilus’ expression change, watched the other man’s brow furrow, his lip twisting slightly.

“Henry?”

“It is nothing.”

What business had he, making promises to Genesius, of all people? A man with whom he had not spoken for some _decades_ , before the past week, and what did he know, anyway, of Henry and his person, or of Theophilus’? An interfering ancient, that was all he amounted to, and—

“I would have you speak frankly to me,” Theophilus said quietly. “It seems to me, sir, that we stand on the precipice of some change: frank speech might suit us both well.”

“You think?”

“I do, sir.”

“Then I do not believe I should allow you to go to London.”

There fell the words from his mouth, heavy as iron weights.

Theophilus’ mouth fell open, his expression stricken, and he stared at Henry with the disgust showing in his face. Oh, subtle was Theophilus’ expression, yes: his lip curled, his brows shifting and his eyes narrowed, his nose wrinkled, and in another man, perhaps the expression might have been mistaken as something subtle, mild, but in Theophilus Henry knew it to be a feeling unabashed.

“Allow me to?” Theophilus repeated.

“Yes,” Henry said, hearing the quaver in his own voice. “I would not— I would not have you… If I might stop you, I would not have you go to the likes of Dufresne.”

“You do disapprove,” said Theophilus softly, turning away from Henry and putting his face in his hands. “A _thousand_ times, Henry, I asked if you disapproved of my relations with Dufresne—”

“A thousand times I lied,” Henry confessed, stepping forward, and Theophilus stepped away from him, his hand between them. His heart was beating fast in his chest, and Henry ached, _ached_ , had never felt so ill and sick with pain as he did in this moment.

Damn Genesius.

Damn Genesius and all he had wrought.

“I feel I must do this,” whispered Theophilus. “I feel as I am a creature half-formed, Henry, I cannot go for yet longer _wanting_ for something I cannot define, cannot name, and I do not in my life ask for much—”

“You do not.”

“I _must_ to London.”

“No,” said Henry. “You must not.”

Theophilus looked at him powerlessly, desperate. “You said you believed it was the right of all men to consort freely with others, of their own sex or otherwise.”

“I do believe that, in general,” Henry said, stepping closer even as Theophilus took another step away. “But not for you.”

“Not for me?” Theophilus repeated, his voice too flat to be angry – he did not sound angry with Henry, but betrayed. “You would hold me, your secretary, to a standard you do not hold other men?”

“You seem to,” Henry said. “Why oughtn’t I?”

“Henry.”

“Theophilus.”

“I am going to London.”

“I forbid it.”

“You forbid it?”

“I do.”

Still, no anger. Where was his fury? Where was his righteous anger, that Henry should try to hold him back – how was it that Theophilus could be so very, very calm, when within Henry there was a storm of feeling?

“Why?” Theophilus asked, his voice sharp, hard, and heavy. “What business is it of yours if I consort with every man between here and Dover?”

“I do not wish you to,” Henry said.

“You care not for my liberty, then?”

“Not if it should have you consort with other men.”

“Why is that?”

“I would much rather you consort with me.”

It took a moment for what Henry had said to register in Theophilus’ mind. Henry knew this, because for a moment, his expression remained frozen in his carefully controlled snarl before his expression slackened in complete and utter shock, his jaw loosely held and his mouth open, his eyes wide open.

Theophilus’ heartbeat seemed faster than ever in Henry’s ears, a thundering rhythm.

“I have for so long held back from you,” Henry whispered, “not wishing to impede upon your liberty, not wishing to put undue pressure upon that liberty as your employer, nor indeed as the creature I am, but, Theophilus, if you will only consent for me to show you even a part of the affection I feel toward you, I would be grateful beyond measure.”

Theophilus was still staring at him, and Henry could not stop the frantic movement of his own mouth, desperate to fill the silence between them with words that he should not drown beneath the beat of Theophilus’ heart – and perhaps, if he continued to speak, he might speak forever, and Theophilus’ inevitable rejection would never land.

“Never in all my life have I known such a man as you, and I know it is too great a favour to ask, that you should look away from the natural deterrent of my vampirism to look well on me, as a potential suitor, but, Theophilus, you are a charm beyond measure, and if you would only allow me to—”

Theophilus’ mouth was warm against his own, and he kissed Henry so hard that perhaps Henry would have bruised beneath his affections, were it not for the hardness of his own flesh. Theophilus kissed him deeply, desperately, with the fervour of a man who had never kissed before, and to keep from sobbing in relief Henry kissed him back, wound his fingers in Theophilus’ beautifully soft curls and felt the heat of Theophilus’ body against his breast.

“Theophilus,” Henry whispered when Theophilus dragged away from his mouth, cupping the back of Theophilus’ hand where it touched Henry’s cheek. “Theophilus, I hope I do not unduly pressuri—”

“Henry, you could not pressure a page to fold,” Theophilus said breathlessly, shoving him back toward the bed. “I thought you inclined only to women.”

“No, never,” Henry said. “My refusal to marry was in large part due to my disposal only toward those of my own sex, and I ached to tell you on the night you confessed the same to me, but I feared to do so would create the expectation that I— What are you doing?”

“Undressing you,” Theophilus said as he pushed Henry back against the mattress, and Henry sank down against it as Theophilus knelt between his legs, his fingers moving fast over the fastenings of Henry’s waistcoat, so fast moving Henry almost worried he might cut his fingers.

“To what end?”

With a flat look came the response: “I’m sure I’ve a diagram somewhere.”

“ _Theo!”_ Henry protested, almost scandalised, though his breeches were tighter with the moment, and to his surprise, Theophilus laughed. It was a beautiful sound, impossibly handsome, and as he laughed he laid his forehead against Henry’s shoulder: Henry could not quite understand the reality of the moment, of Theophilus’ hands on his body, of the other man against him. “You laugh at me?”

“No,” Theophilus said. “Merely that I have never cared for such shortenings before now.”

“You do not wish me to call you Theo?”

“On the contrary,” said Theophilus, shoving Henry’s waistcoat from his shoulders as though it were the enemy, “I should encourage it, so long as we are in private together.”

“I am trying my best to confess my love.”

“Have I placed a gag in your mouth?”

“You are distracting me more ably than you might with a ga— _ah_ —” Henry groaned, his cheeks burning as Theophilus kissed his neck, his hands deftly unfastening yet more buttons.

“I have ached for you myself,” said Theophilus. “And yearned. You know what is in that chest?”

“No.”

“Drawings of you. More than I might count.”

“Of me?” Henry repeated, clumsily trying to undo Theophilus’ cravat, and rather losing the dexterity in his fingers as Theophilus’ teeth dragged at the juncture of his throat, making Henry choke off into a low moan.

“Often nude,” Theophilus confirmed, and shoved the chest to the floor: it tipped on its side as it fell, and as sketches and paintings were thrown free, falling in scattered piles over the floor, Henry caught a glimpse of just one, of a gentleman quite like Henry with his teeth buried in the neck of another young man quite naked, his hand wrapped around his— “Get on your back,” Theophilus interrupted him, shoving him further onto the mattress, and giddily, Henry obeyed.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” he said, and laughed when Theophilus shot him a grin the likes of which Henry had never before dreamed.

**THEOPHILUS**

Theophilus lay on his side beneath the blankets Henry had hastily pulled out from his luggage, his head laid upon the pillows. His body was suffused with a warm, tired ache, the sort that followed after any vigorous exercise, and he was aware that his lips were curved into a smile, but had not the desire to school them into anything else.

Henry was kneeling on the floor, naked but for Theophilus’ banyan, which he had not bothered to tie even about his waist, and subsequently did little but draw attention to what choice pieces of flesh Henry was baring to the room’s air.

For some minutes, he had been carefully picking up every piece of scattered sketch paper and painting, examining each page very intently before setting them aside to be packed away again. Henry looked at each idle depiction as though it were something very precious, and Theophilus’ chest felt so very full it might pop. The reality of the past few hours had yet to truly make itself solid within him, and he feared he might wake from this wondrous dream at any moment – and yet, this was no dream.

“Henry.”

“Theophilus?”

“You are an idiot.”

Henry glanced at him, then smiled, and picked up a sketch Theophilus had done of Henry’s hands. “As you say,” Henry said softly. “You might call me whatever you like, so long as you do not go to London.”

“I will to London, if you want complete the work we have there,” Theophilus said. “Though you will have to accompany me. Must you do that now?”

“You would rather leave these sketches as a new carpet for your landlady?”

“I would have you close to me,” said Theophilus, even as he felt his lips tingle to say it. “You have been distant from me overlong.”

Henry laughed, but obeyed, climbing slowly onto the bed with him, and when Theophilus took him by the wrist and pulled him closer, laying on his back that Henry should straddle his lap, Henry frowned at him. Like this, with a glow in his smooth skin, his hair loose and tousled from exertion, he looked as an angel in a painting.

“You do not find me too heavy?”

“Not by half,” Theophilus murmured as Henry settled his weight on top of him, and Theophilus sighed at the heavy pressure of it. Vampiric flesh was denser by many times than that of a man’s, and Henry was so heavy as to be almost uncomfortable – it was a wonderful weight. “I wish you had told me sooner.”

“I was frightened,” Henry murmured, loosely clasping Theophilus’ hand where it came up to brush over Henry’s chest. “Terrified I should somehow hold you hostage. Strange to worry for, I know, when it seems to me an army couldn’t do so.”

He leaned forward, brushing their noses together, and when they kissed, it was slow, Henry’s lips impossibly cool against Theophilus’ own, and yet not so much so that his own lips felt numb. Henry’s body, cold and unyielding, was all that he might have imagined, and so much more.

“And that aside, I worried you should not want for a monster as me,” Henry said quietly. “My heart stone-cold as it is, no matter that it beats for your pleasure alone.”

“I did not wish to overstep my bounds,” Theophilus murmured. “But your vampirism never deterred me, as I hope you should realise from my sketches. You being my employer was my concern, and more than that, you being a man I thought entirely focused upon women – a notion, I might point out, you never disabused me of.”

“Have I not disabused you of it by now?” asked Henry, leaning to kiss Theophilus’ knuckles. “I might disabuse you of it more thoroughly, if I have your consent.”

“I do find myself in need of some more convincing,” Theophilus said firmly, and Henry beamed at him: as he smiled, all teeth, he unsheathed his long canines, and abruptly, Theophilus’ confident manner faded away, replaced only by a very dry mouth, and an increasingly urgent coil in his loins.

“Oh, yes?” Henry asked, arching his eyebrows, playful. “You would have me convince you?”

“You lisp when you speak with your teeth unsheathed, you know.”

“Perhaps I should get up again,” Henry said, and laughing, Theophilus protested, “No!” and pulled him back down beneath the covers.

That night, Theophilus’ belongings joined Henry’s in his rooms, and they did not sleep a wink in the same bed, for they lay side by side and talked ‘til Henry’s voice was hoarse.

“Club and diamond, Theo,” Henry murmured in his secretary’s ear as the sun began to rise outside: Theophilus, exhausted, had his eyes closed, no matter that Henry was still full to the brim with energy, and he groaned, dragging Henry down on top of him and frowning at the tickle of Henry’s laugh against his breath.

“Club and diamond,” he echoed, unable not to smile, and fell asleep.


	19. Epilogue

**TUSCANY, 1769**

Quite absently, without seeming to think much about it, Theophilus reached up and scratched his jaw. Henry could hear the sound of the stiff, thickly curled hair in his ears as Theophilus scratched through it, and he ached to reach out and touch it himself – for all he liked to touch Theophilus’ hair at all hours of the day, the new beard carried its own dangerous magnetism, and several times in these past months, Theophilus had mocked him for rubbing his cheek against Theophilus’ like a cat, only wanting to feel its brush against his skin.

He looked very dignified with it, in all truth – he really _was_ like a philosopher, to look at, now. He looked more a bust than he had even when Henry had first met him, looked as though he had stepped from a debate in the forum onto Henry’s veranda, no matter that he did not wear a himation, and Henry’s attempts at coaxing him into one had gone unsatisfied.

“Theo,” Henry said, “do I look in your eyes to be a French libertine?”

Theophilus glanced up from the letter he had been focused on, and now turned to examine Henry, one eyebrow raised, his lips pressed loosely together.

“I could not say, Henry,” he said, not incautiously, and Henry gave up the thought for the moment.

“Is that a letter from Dufresne?”

“It is. His sister just gave birth to two twin boys.”

“Good. I hope he stays to attend them.”

Theophilus smiled, looking at Henry with warm, honeyed affection shining in his eyes, affection Henry still couldn’t quite believe he was on the receiving end of. “I shall pass on your regards,” Theophilus said softly.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Tuesday?”

“You are being facetious.”

“You’re right,” said Theophilus. “It is Friday. Why would I lie?”

Henry felt himself frown. “It is Friday?”

“No, my love, it is Tuesday.”

Henry’s frown deepened. “You will have me forget the thread of my remarks.”

“I do apologise, Henry,” said Theophilus, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Do go on.”

“It is the fourth of June,” said Henry. “Five years to the day you first entered my office.”

“An anniversary,” murmured Theophilus, leaning back in his seat and putting out his arms, and Henry moved forward, settling his weight into the other man’s lap with no hesitation at all, well-assured, by now, that Theophilus would not crumble beneath it.

These past months, Theophilus had been moving through quite the flurry of paperwork between the various offices of the Vampiric Council across the continent, communicating the progress being made by the Joneses back in England, and the work well-suited him.

Three times, these past weeks, another vampire in the area had asked Henry, in a quietly perplexed manner, why his clerk was the one doing the bulk of this work when he was not a vampire himself, and Henry had ushered away each question in turn.

They looked somewhat different, now, he supposed – five years ago, a publisher and his secretary; now, they more resembled a physician and his lawyer, though Theophilus would firmly put himself as Henry’s secretary when asked, and often enough, when not.

“Something ails you?” Theophilus asked, looking up at him, his hands settled loosely, possessively, on Henry’s waist.

“Nothing,” Henry said. “But thought.”

“Ah,” Theophilus murmured, but no snark followed: he took hold of Henry’s hand, brushing his thumb loosely over the back of Henry’s knuckles, the movement easily affectionate. “You want to discuss it?”

“I wish to propose.”

Theophilus was quiet a moment, thoughtful, and then he leaned back slightly in his seat, the better to examine Henry’s face. “Propose?” he repeated softly. In the comfortable warmth of the late evening, the cicadas were audible for miles around them, and Henry disliked their incessant chatter even more than usual in this moment, so loud as it was in his ears as he was trying to focus on Theophilus’ voice. “If it is a wedding you want, Henry, I can ask—”

“No, no,” said Henry. “No, I was… My proposal was of something rather more permanent than marriage.”

Theophilus’ expression grew more serious, and he wrapped his arms solidly about Henry’s waist now, pulling him closer. Henry leaned in toward him, brushing their noses to one another, their foreheads touching.

“I have been waiting for you to grow tired of me,” murmured Henry. “Such a time does not seem forthcoming.”

“I could never,” Theophilus said quietly. “I would happily sacrifice far more than the heat of my blood for but a minute more of life with you, let alone decades.”

“Tonight, then.”

“Tonight.”

“Theophilus.”

“Henry.”

“I love you dearly. Desperately, even.”

“And I you,” Theophilus said softly, and kissed him: at once, the cicadas were interrupted by a very loud clatter of smashing ceramics on the other side of the building, and Henry leaned back as Theophilus muttered some Greek profanity under his breath.

“What in God’s name was that?”

“The cat has a thorn in its back paw,” Theophilus muttered. “Ambrose has been trying to capture it.”

“What would you wager that was the sound of success?”

“Might you hypnotise the beast?”

“I will try,” Henry said, patting Theophilus’ cheek, and rose to go.

* * *

Sitting at his desk on the veranda, Theophilus basked in the bliss of the moment, the cicadas momentarily quiet, Henry’s proposal a comforting weight upon his shoulders, the evening heat a balm for his skin.

Then, a caterwauling cry split the night, and he heard another shattering sound – this one more distinctive, belonging to the crystal vase Bartholomew had sent at Christmas, he suspected. It was not the end of the world, he supposed as he got to his own feet, smiling to himself. Henry hated that vase to pieces.

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that is the end of Heart of Stone!
> 
> The plan was to publish this chapter by chapter, and then publish as an eBook when it came to the end of the line, and it's available [here on the UK Amazon store for £3.99](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08F2VKDTG/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Heart+of+Stone+By+Johannes+T.+Evans&qid=1596224499&sr=8-1) or on [the US one for $4.99](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08F2VKDTG/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Heart+of+Stone+By+Johannes+T.+Evans&qid=1596224499&sr=8-1). If you do want to buy a copy, I'd really appreciate it, but this story is going to remain here on Ao3 for the foreseeable future, so there's no pressure!
> 
> I'd love some feedback on my original work if you're keeping up with it, and there's [a little Google form here](https://forms.gle/LdUkXFkrTs6YFxxKA). 
> 
> Totally check out my [Tumblr](https://johannesevans.tumblr.com/), and feel free to join the [Discord](https://discord.gg/vZ27uun) I have for my writing!
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading and following along - the encouragement here on Ao3 has meant the absolute world to me, and has really helped me get this story finished!


End file.
